


Midnight in Paris

by JennaCupcakes



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Tumblr AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire comes back from London, Courfeyrac has made some friends, and Enjolras is too good-looking for his own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which there is a guy with a blog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nakymatonlapsi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakymatonlapsi/gifts).



> Inspired by the following post on tumblr: 'modern AU where Grantaire has a tumblr and he's always reblogging Enjolras' things even though it's all about social justice which R has absolutely no interest in and sometimes when he's drunk he sends Enjolras flirty anons', but it went its own way a long time ago.
> 
> Beta-read by the amazingly patient and supportive speightdaysaweek. Thank you so much!
> 
> The title is shamelessly borrowed from Woody Allen's movie 'Midnight in Paris'. There's gonna be a joke about that movie in future chapters. Possibly.

“Okay, so there’s this guy, and he has a blog.”

That was how he tried explaining the whole affair to Courfeyrac one afternoon, when they were sitting in a coffee shop somewhere in the banlieues of Paris. Grantaire had just come back from a trip to London, and had settled here until he could find an apartment in the city again. The dirt of the poorer quarters matched the blues he’d brought home from the rainy streets of London – or maybe it was just a thing that happened after travelling, the passing inability to settle back into normalcy.

“Okay, that’s… great!” Courfeyrac smiled, and had no right to sound anywhere near as enthusiastic as he did, considering that Grantaire’s attempt at storytelling was a poor example of one. His frown didn’t diminish his smile; it only made him look like a curious Cheshire Cat. “How is that important again?”

Grantaire still looked pale from the months spent in London, and the shadows under his eyes spoke of reasons to drink he had brought home in his suitcase where the people he would have drunk with had stayed behind. He sighed deeply. “I don’t know, Courf.”

They had only been communicating via tumblr during the last months, and Courfeyrac found it hard to start off where they had left all those months ago. Grantaire was pleasurable to have around, but by no means easy to communicate with – just because he laughed easily didn’t mean he would open his heart to just anyone. More of the opposite. “Has he been sending you hate?”

Grantaire shook his head decidedly. “No, no!”  
He ran a hand through his dark curls and smiled crookedly. “Have you been online lately?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “A little. Not much. I’ve been out with some guys I met, I should introduce you…”

Grantaire waved his hand dismissively. “You can tell me about your new friends later. I need you to listen now.”

Courfeyrac shut his mouth and nodded, ever the good friend. Grantaire took a sip from his coffee, and Courfeyrac could have bet that it would smell suspiciously like alcohol if he decided to sniff it.

“It’s a bit complicated,” Grantaire said, “A friend showed me this guy’s blog a couple of weeks ago, and I really wasn’t that interested because it’s all that social justice crap and politics and let’s save the world and then have fair-trade breakfast, and you know how well that goes with me, but then my friend showed me a picture and I might have followed him.”

“And that’s a problem because…?”

“Well, he’s hot,” Grantaire explained matter-of-factly.

“That’s not exactly a problem,” Courfeyrac decided after a moment’s hesitation. He tried to remember some of Grantaire’s reblogs, something out of the ordinary maybe, but his dashboard had been so full lately with posts from the ABC that Grantaire’s must have gotten lost.

“He’s hot, and completely out of my league,” Grantaire added, waving his cup around dangerously but managing not to spill anything. Years of drunk practice, Courfeyrac assumed.

“You admitting defeat before even trying?” Courfeyrac smiled, then held up a hand, “Wait, you weren’t seriously thinking about dating someone from the internet, were you?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and leaned back in the soft chair with his arms crossed. “You sound like my sister.”

“Your sister is kinda hot.”

“And you’re a dick.”

Grantaire uncrossed his arms and picked at a loose thread on the upholstery of the chair. “I know that he lives in Paris, or at least somewhere close. He goes to demonstrations here, there was the one about the lack of democracy in the European Union where he--”

Grantaire stopped and looked up, noticing Courfeyrac’s smugly raised eyebrow. “What? I can know stuff about politics too. Just because I think they’re all morons doesn’t mean I’m not listening.”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Actually I was more wondering if this mysterious guy had anything to do with your early departure from London, but okay.”

Grantaire had returned to Paris two weeks earlier than expected, little more than a couple of days ago. There had been no explanation, although Courfeyrac had tried asking when Grantaire had called him with the request of picking him up at the airport.

“Do you really think I would let two weeks of artistic self discovery go to waste over some guy?” Grantaire scoffed. “It’s not like I couldn’t have painted him in England. There was a misunderstanding with the landlord.”

He blinked. “Not that I painted him. I mean, I could have. But I didn’t.”

“I’m sure of that,” Courfeyrac replied with a grin, “Now, tell me, how long have you been following him?”

“About three weeks,” Grantaire answered after a moment of struggling with himself. He preferred to keep his misery to himself, but then again, he had brought up the topic. He’d spent his last week in London trying to convince himself he was overreacting, maybe now was the time for a little bit of honesty.

Courfeyrac’s grin only got wider. He was always cheerful, and it was immensely hard to hold a grudge against him – and Grantaire had tried.

“We’re going to find you a flat first, okay?” he said determinedly, “Then you can settle here again, and then you have time to worry about your Apollo.”

“Achilles,” Grantaire mumbled, “he’s definitely more of an Achilles.”

Ξ|Ξ

Two days after their meeting in the café, Courfeyrac called him up again. “How’s it going, Marius?”

“This is Grantaire,” Grantaire replied, grumbling because _damnit_ , Courf called him in the middle of a project and now he was smearing paint all over a phone that wasn’t even his because he was borrowing the flat from someone who was out of the country for two months. And his name was _not_ Marius.

“I know you’re Grantaire,” Courfeyrac replied with a sigh, “I was just making a joke about… ah, well, you don’t know Marius, I’ll have to introduce you tonight. They’re gonna be delighted, you’ll see…”

Grantaire frowned. “Tonight?”

Courfeyrac made a noise of enthusiasm that slightly scared Grantaire.

“You’re coming with me tonight. Café Musain, lots of fun, you’ll see… I already asked Combeferre, and he’s cool with it.”

“What are you even talking about?” Grantaire interrupted Courfeyrac’s excited rambling. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then almost crossed his eyes in trying to get a look at his forehead. He had a sneaking suspicion he’d just left paint there as well.

“Those guys I told you about?” Courfeyrac explained, going more slowly the second time around, “It’s this group of friends I met after you left, they’re really great and you’re gonna like them, I can feel it!”

Grantaire looked at his watch. “Tonight, you said? When exactly?”

“I’m going to pick you up at half past eight, okay?” Courfeyrac seemed to be typing. “There’s never exactly a fixed time for the meeting, but that’s usually when the fun starts.”

“Okay,” Grantaire said, “I’ll see you then.”

He hung up before Courfeyrac could try his hands on an actual conversation. That could wait until later – and the atrocity he called a painting was waiting to be finished.

He went back to the acryl paint and canvas, but there was too much red and gold and looking at it after being torn out of his creative state of mind he actually couldn’t stand it anymore. The problem was that he knew damn well what he had been trying to paint while trying to avoid painting this exact individual – _a guy he only knew from pictures goddamnit_. This had resulted in splashes of red, aggressively covered in fine lines of gold.

In hindsight, he’d only managed to make it look like he’d murdered a fairy on the canvas – the almost unearthly outline of cheekbones that had captured his attention from the first moment he’d seen it was still too visible, and the mess of gold lines on top was still too recognizable as blond curls.

He switched on his laptop with a sigh, telling himself he was only looking for inspiration, something that would get him back into the mood for political comics and caricatures, and not looking for more pictures of _that guy_.

Only when he was about five minutes into his dashboard did he realize that he had opened tumblr. With a shrug, he scrolled back up – _who needs that button it’s like taking the car when you could just walk where you want to go_ – and went on Courf’s blog to leave him a weird anon message. His reactions were priceless and generally hilarious.

That was, until he came across his friends latest post.

_Introducing a shy introvert cynic to a bunch of lovely idiots. What could possibly go wrong?_

He hadn’t tagged Grantaire, probably because he valued his life. Grantaire growled at the laptop screen and started replying, then deleted his initial ‘I am not shy!’ and typed ‘fuck you’. It felt immensely satisfying, though he still wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t going to murder his friend. One day, maybe.

He went back onto his dashboard. Of course, quite consistent with his luck, _Achilles_ – damn guys who were careful about not revealing their real name on the internet, Grantaire had had to come up with _something_ – had just reblogged something, including a long and exhausting comment too. It was a link to a newspaper article online, but going by the comment Achilles had added under the link, he didn’t agree with what the article had to say.

_«_ _The concept of fair-trade has been devised to cover up the vast unfairness in agriculture that the European Union and the USA have managed to achieve. We claim fairness and equality in dealing with less developed countries, but only to assure our access to those markets where we sell our cheap products. Fair-trade is supposed to give us citizens back the choice of disagreeing with this crime that our governments commit daily, but it cannot be an excuse for our complacency._ _»_

Grantaire laughed, and then reblogged the link. He wished he could slap his dumb grin off his face. The cartoonist in his head sneered (sure, pay more money so some arrogant bosses in huge companies can get even more money, it’s not like you’ll make a difference anyway), but it was cute to see the guy get excited about pretty much anything.

He went back up his dashboard and refreshed, and almost had a heart attack. There was another picture of Achilles on his dashboard.

Obviously, the guy hadn’t posted it himself – he wasn’t vain enough for that, and there probably wouldn’t be a point to it for him – he’d just reblogged it from someone. The first comment, added by the one who’d posted the picture, said ‘ _our fearless leader entrancing the masses at the protest against more money for Greece_ ’.

Achilles’ comment was a bit longer, but it took Grantaire more or less five minutes to even scroll down far enough to read it, because he was busy staring at the guy’s profile. His blond locks were sticking up in all directions, and he was in the middle of shouting something. He was wearing the same red raincoat that Grantaire had tried to paint him in earlier, and he stood out starkly against the rainy grey sky and the protesters who were mostly dressed in black.

And as much as Grantaire admired his Achilles – maybe he should tone it down on the possessive pronouns a bit – he had to laugh at the contrast of commentary:

The guy who’d posted the picture had clearly done so with a friendly jab at Achilles’ enthusiasm, a point which said Achilles had completely missed. Instead, he had outlined the purpose of the protest again.

_«_ _The problem, my friends, is not the money we’re giving. We need solidarity in order for this union to work, and that means helping out when a member of our community is shook by a crisis like this. The problem is that for years rich countries have been preaching equality without exercising it, using the free market only to gain access to new selling grounds in countries where the industry couldn’t compete with their cheap products. Our prosperity was borrowed, and it’s only fair that we pay now._ _»_

Grantaire scrolled back up, still grinning, cast a last dreamy glance at the photograph and then reblogged it.

Ξ|Ξ

Courfeyrac burst into Grantaire’s apartment with his mobile pressed to his ear and his car keys in his free hand. He looked mildly horrified.

“Where are you now, Eponine?”

Grantaire guessed that Courf didn’t like the answer, going by his widened eyes and the hand pressed to his mouth. “ _But you don’t have a key to my apartment!_ ”

He dashed past Grantaire and sat down on the grey, dubiously stained couch. Grantaire was basically wary of all of his borrowed furniture, but Courfeyrac didn’t seem to mind anything at the moment. “It’s not my turn, Eponine!”

Grantaire went back into the kitchen, not wanting to eavesdrop on the conversation when he didn’t have to. While he was at it, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and pressed the opened can into Courfeyrac’s hand when he returned to the living room. His friend took it without a second glance, pressing the freezing cold and slightly wet aluminium to his cheek.

“So Marius is there, great. Well, I’m taking Grantaire for the first time, and I’m not gonna miss that.”

He took a sip from his beer while listening to the answer, the sighed. “Listen, I’ll come over again. We’ll find a solution.”

He hung up with the desperation of someone who carries his heart out in the open, plain for everyone to see. “Eponine,” he explained and finished the rest of his beer. Grantaire took the empty can from his hand, then crumpled it and threw it over his shoulder into the general direction of the kitchen. Some wayward drops of liquid remained on his hands, and he wiped them clean on his dark, paint-stained trousers.

“Eponine who?” he asked and sat down on the floor cross-legged, facing Courfeyrac.

“Eponine Thénardier,” his friend explained, “She’s part of the group, we’ve been hanging out together a bit and I’ve been looking after her little brother when she needed a babysitter.”

“Is that what this was about?” Grantaire asked, gesturing towards the phone sitting on the sofa next to Courfeyrac. His friend nodded, leaning forward to bury his face in his hands. Grantaire would have offered him another beer, but Courfeyrac still needed to drive.

“She wants me to babysit. Apparently, Marius is going to be at the meeting.”

“Marius? Who’s that now?” Grantaire sighed, then his head snapped up suddenly. “Wait, you called me Marius when you phoned me. Why did you call me Marius?”

Courfeyrac looked baffled at the sudden influx of questions from his friend. “Marius is part of the group as well,” he explained, choosing to answer the questions in the order they had been asked in, “Well, most of the time anyway, when he’s not pining after Cosette. That’s why I called you Marius – you were kind of playing the lovesick puppy yourself the other day.”

Grantaire snorted. “I was not.”

Courfeyrac leaned forward to pat Grantaire’s head. “It’s okay. Just keep thinking that and you’ll be fine.”

Ξ|Ξ

Courfeyrac’s apartment hadn’t changed a bit.

The door still stuck, and it took Courfeyrac a second and some muffled cursing to wrench it open. Clothes were still strewn all over the floor – Grantaire recognized two of his t-shirts that he’d probably left at his friend’s place when he’d showed up drunk – and there was a large pile of shitty sci-fi-novels next to the sofa, the kind that always left you feeling like you would have been better off reading Star Wars fanfiction online. Grantaire knew Courfeyrac loved those.

Eponine was sitting on the kitchen counter when they entered, eating a yoghurt that – going by the brief flash of horror on Courfeyrac’s face – had probably been taken from his fridge. She smiled at Courfeyrac, and then considered Grantaire with a frown.

“So who’s your friend?” she asked with a nod in his direction.

Courfeyrac gestured between the two of them. “Eponine, that’s Grantaire, my friend who was in London. Grantaire, this is Eponine.”

Eponine waved at him briefly, then resumed eating her yoghurt. “Hi.”

Courfeyrac looked around the apartment nervously. “Where’s Gavroche?”

Eponine pointed towards the bedroom. “He said he had your permission to play with your collection of Matchbox cars.” Her grin was smug. “Totally cute, by the way.”

Courfeyrac yelped, and then dashed out of the kitchen in a hurry. Grantaire, who was left with Eponine, decided to raid the fridge for a beer.

The fridge was covered in postcards and pictures – Grantaire recognized the one he had sent from London, Courf had placed a magnet over the penis he had drawn on one of the palace guards – and its contents were in various states of decay. Grantaire found the beer in the same drawer as a bunch of oranges, took one and closed the door again.

Eponine was watching him.

Standing closer to her now, he could see that her clothing wasn’t as much of a fashion choice as it was a necessity she was trying to cover up – her boots were hanging loosely from her feet, too big for her, and her shirt was fraying. The coat next to her, from what Grantaire could see, was missing several buttons.

When she put her empty yoghurt down, Grantaire realised why Courfeyrac hadn’t complained about her taking his food. He felt a pang of sympathy for her, but dismissed it quickly – she didn’t want sympathy, he could see that in her eyes. She looked perpetually challenging.

“Nice shirt,” she remarked now with a smile, and Grantaire realised he must have been staring. He looked down and found that he was still wearing a paint-stained shirt that said ‘ _my best friend is called Jack Daniels_ ’, and laughed briskly.

“We go way back,” he joked and took a sip from his beer. There was a rattling sound from the bedroom, and a disappointed whine. Grantaire raised his eyebrows.

“Since when did Courf become _Mama Courfeyrac_?”

Eponine laughed – it was a tell-tale laugh; loud and brief, as if she was surprised that she had found reason to do so. “I didn’t even have to chain him to the sofa with Gavroche. They just caught right on.”

She shrugged. “Maybe it’s a boy thing, needing someone to look up to who adores you equally and will still have your ass when you do shit. Daddy certainly never met any of the criteria.”

She scoffed, then regarded Grantaire from the corner of her eye as if she wasn’t sure if she had said too much. Grantaire just kept sipping his beer with a contemplating expression until Courfeyrac returned with a small, blonde-headed boy flung over his shoulder.

He put the boy down in the middle of the kitchen with a huff, then looked over to Eponine who had crossed her arms in a fashion that said _not my problem_.

“I caught it. Now what?”

Gavroche kicked his shin, which prompted Grantaire to laugh. “I like him.”

Gavroche smiled and shrugged as if he could care less. “I don’t need a babysitter, Ponine, I’m almost twelve!”

“Last time you said that you tried to sell your sister on ebay,” Courfeyrac reminded him, “So no, we’re not doing that again.”

“I thought it was a dating website,” Gavroche grumbled and looked over to Eponine. “Come on, I promise I’ll be nice!”

Eponine and Courfeyrac meanwhile were caught in a staring contest. Grantaire wasn’t sure if the girl was simply determined or borderline murderous.

“I am going to that meeting,” she said.

“Me too,” Courfeyrac insisted. He didn’t look half as scary as Eponine, Grantaire remarked with a certain fondness, more like a small terrier trying to stand his ground. Whereas the little Gavroche looked a little too pleased with the situation for Grantaire’s liking.

The only way to get through this, he decided, was by finishing his beer. The familiarity of the bitter taste always offered comfort, soothed bothers both big and small and presented advice in times of need. Moreover, it gave him an excuse to speak up where he would usually mind his own business and blame it on the alcohol.

“Well, then why don’t you just take him?”

Eponine and Courfeyrac stared at him like he was out of his mind.

“We can’t--” Eponine began, and Courfeyrac agreed.

“He’s just a kid, we shouldn’t...”

Grantaire looked down at the boy with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know. If nothing else, he’ll be tired by the time we get home.”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Gavroche complained with a stomp of his foot.

When Courfeyrac tilted his head, Grantaire knew it was decided. “I suppose we could...”

Eponine just shrugged, jumping down from the kitchen counter and grabbing her jacket. “Whatever.”

They hurried out of the apartment – the door stuck when being closed, too – but Grantaire pulled Gavroche to the side on the stairs. “Don’t think I haven’t figured out how fucking pleased you are about this, you little shit.”

He said it with a fond smile, though, and Gavroche only winked at him.


	2. in which there is alcohol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's luck is either the worst or the best, but at least someone has alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to speightdaysaweek for beta-reading!

The Musain wasn’t a café, and it wasn’t a bar either. Located on the first floor in a building in Les Halles, surrounded by either Jazz clubs or fast food restaurants, it had just always been _there_ for those who knew about it, and nobody had ever bothered to label it.

Above all else, it was, essentially, a place of meeting.

The place was well-lit, which made it perfect for study meetings in the afternoon, but it also had a bar that served coffee as well as drinks and sometimes both at once, and enough room beside the tables to dance or hold a speech or fight. It was less frequented than other bars in the quarter, but its patrons were, if nothing else, loyal.

When Courfeyrac, Eponine, Grantaire and Gavroche stumbled through the door, most of the tables were already occupied, and the humming of conversations spoke of a level of entertainment and excitement that was promising. A few heads turned when they entered, but nobody had the chance to get up because Courfeyrac darted across the room – definitely a terrier, Grantaire thought – and tackled one of the guys in a hug.

Eponine snorted, and dragged her brother to one of the few tables with empty chairs, where a guy with dark hair was sitting and staring miserably into his beer. Grantaire assumed this was Marius, going by the way Eponine smiled a bit brighter, and more so by the knowing look on Gavroche’s face.

Courfeyrac claimed his attention back before he could decide if he should go to sit with them. “R, come over! You have to meet our little poet!”

Grantaire strolled over to where Courfeyrac was standing, and then gave the guy in the chair a brief nod. Said poet smiled softly, but extended his hand to shake Grantaire’s firmly. His greeting was soft spoken, even though his voice was deep, and Grantaire had no doubt he could make himself heard should he want to.

“Jean Prouvaire.”

“You can call him Jehan,” Courfeyrac chimed in.

“My friends call me Jehan,” Prouvaire said, and it was an explanation just as it was a request to not call him Jehan idly. That it was a name indeed reserved for friends.

“I’m Grantaire,” he replied, and mocked tipping a hat at him, “Pleased to meet you.”

Prouvaire smiled again, and Grantaire had to admit he liked him. He would have continued a conversation, but Courfeyrac dragged him around the table to the guy sitting next to Prouvaire. He was sporting a wicked grin, a black eye, and a handshake to break steel. “Bahorel,” he introduced himself, “Pleasure to meet you, R.”

Grantaire made a mental note to remind Courfeyrac to stop introducing him with his nickname-that-wasn’t-actually-a-nickname.

The other two on the table were Joly and Feuilly, one of which refused to shake his hand for some vague medical reason. The other was greeting him with a warm smile and an offer to fetch him a beer, something that Grantaire would probably still say yes to from beyond the grave. He thanked the guy briefly before Courfeyrac dragged him forwards.

“Bossuet doesn’t seem to be here,” he stated, “Along with Musichetta.”

He shrugged. “Time for you to meet Senator Organa, then, the rebellion’s fearless leader.”

“You did not,” Grantaire muttered.

Courfeyrac beamed at him. “I agree, he’s really more of an Emperor when you get on his bad side, but I tried calling him that once and he wouldn’t talk to me for three days afterwards, so Senator Organa it is.”

There were two guys sitting at the table Courfeyrac dragged him to now. One had short, blond hair and a pile of books sitting in front of him, the other had his back turned to Grantaire and Courfeyrac and was sitting hunched over the table.

“Evening, guys!” Courfeyrac exclaimed cheerily, and the two of them looked up, but then Courfeyrac moved to introduce the Grantaire to the first guy, involuntarily blocking his view of the second.

“Grantaire, this is Combeferre.”

Combeferre wore glasses and looked at Grantaire thoroughly, but not condescendingly, like he was making a point to see both his merits and his flaws. He seemed sure of himself, but in a quiet, unassuming manner.

“It’s good to meet you, Grantaire.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to be here,” Grantaire replied and found himself being honest despite all the layers of sarcasm his personality had adopted. Courfeyrac moved aside, only just realising he was standing in front of the other guy, and apologised while Grantaire was still turning his head.

“God, Enjolras, I didn’t mean to be rude...”

It almost happened in slow-motion – Grantaire turned to look at the guy at the table, and the guy, Enjolras, looked up, and Grantaire could feel recognition hitting him like the pendulum of a giant clock, almost sweeping him of his feet.

It was him.

_That was him._

Godfuckingdamnit.

Courfeyrac – who, as attentive as he might usually be when it came to his friends, hadn’t noticed Grantaire going into shock, maybe a very severe state of trauma or possibly a spontaneous paralysis – began the introduction as he’d done before. Grantaire only realised his friend must have been talking when the guy’s – _Enjolras_ , he had a name now – gaze shifted away from Grantaire, who was staring almost reverently at the figure before him, towards the smiling Courfeyrac.

A hand on Grantaire’s shoulder brought him back to reality, away from that magical land of fairies and golden-haired warriors he’d momentarily slipped into.

The dark-haired guy – _Feuilly_ – was handing him the promised beer.

“Cheers, mate,” he said and clinked their bottles together. Grantaire only managed to lift his to his mouth because the movement was basically instinct for him by now – muscle memory, that sort of thing.

“Cheers,” he muttered and downed about half of the beer in one gulp. His hands weren’t shaking – much.

“You’re the artist Courfeyrac was talking about?”

If Grantaire thought he hadn’t been prepared to see his Achilles in person, then he now had to admit that he had been even less prepared to hear him talk, and much less to him. Grantaire’s tongue seemed to have crawled down his throat and died, leaving Grantaire looking like a complete moron.

Thank God for Courfeyrac.

“Yes, he is.” Courf smiled. “He just came back from London.”

Combeferre said something, and Enjolras nodded and turned back to the papers in front of him, his daily dose of small talk apparently exhausted for now that more important things were at hand. Grantaire saw flyers lying between the two of them, taped together with colourful pictures and statistics – they were designing, he could tell that immediately – but he couldn’t tell what the flyers were about.

“Do you want to sit?” Courfeyrac asked, and when Grantaire turned out to be still unable to respond, he steered him to a table. It ended up being the table with Eponine and Marius, because people who apparently didn’t belong to the group had filled the others.

Courfeyrac pushed him down in a seat and sat next to him, greeting the freckled boy opposite of them with his usual, skull-splitting, made-out-of-rainbows-and-kittens-smile. “How’re you doing, Marius?” Without waiting for a response, he went for the introduction. “This is Grantaire, a friend of mine. Grantaire, this is Marius.”

Marius raised his head and smiled at him. Grantaire noticed Eponine watching Marius from under her lashes, smiling quietly into her drink.

“You’re the shy introvert cynic, right?”

Grantaire turned to Courfeyrac. “I’m going to murder you for that text post. You are banned from ever mentioning me on tumblr again.”

Courfeyrac seemed pleased. “At least now they know that you’re just hiding your charm under that tough outer shell!”

Grantaire would have replied, but something else came to his mind. “Wait, are you all following each other?”

Marius made a noise of affirmation. “Sort of, yeah. You’re on tumblr, too?”

“Only to keep this guy in check,” Grantaire growled in Courfeyrac’s direction, “Courf, we need to talk.”

He got up and Courfeyrac followed him with a bewildered expression on his face, to a relatively quiet spot next to the bar.

“You knew,” Grantaire hissed as soon as they were standing, leaning in with a mixture of anger and poorly disguised desperation on his face, “You knew, and you never said a word.”

“Knew what?” Courfeyrac uttered equally quiet, his forehead creasing and his brows rising up comically.

Grantaire made a discreet gesture in the direction of Enjolras, who was currently talking to the dark-haired guy who had gotten Grantaire the beer he was still clinging to. “I’m assuming you know Senator Organa over there’s got a blog, too, and you’re following him. I’m just wondering why you haven’t noticed that _this is the exact same guy I’ve been reblogging pictures and stuff from for the last two weeks because I have a crush on him so hard that I’d be crushed ice if it were any worse_.”

“You should really work on your metaphors,” a voice chirped in from behind Grantaire, and his head spun around so fast he thought his neck might snap. Prouvaire was standing next to – or more accurately, slightly leaning against – the bar. “Who exactly are you having your crush on, _crushed ice_?”

He didn’t sound mocking, and his smile seemed honest, but Grantaire still flinched at the repetition. “It’s nothing, really, I was just saying to Courf...”

Unfortunately, as he looked back to Courfeyrac, he could see understanding dawning on his best friend’s face. “You mean that’s the guy? The one you told me about?”

Courfeyrac glanced over his shoulder to get another look at the blonde. “You have a crush on _Enjolras_?”

He laughed as if that was the funniest thing he had ever heard. Grantaire felt the blood rush to his cheeks against his will. “I don’t...”

Prouvaire gaped, unbelieving. “No.”

Grantaire crossed his arms defiantly. “Okay, you two, it’s really none of your business and I’m just gonna get stupidly drunk now.”

A smile spread across Prouvaire’s face, and Courfeyrac seemed equally excited. “Oh, but that’s wonderful!”

Grantaire regretted saying anything, because now Courfeyrac _knew_ and it would be impossible to keep this a secret – a fact proven by the smiling Prouvaire next to him, who seemed ridiculously excited about this turn of events. Grantaire was just going to move away, but Courfeyrac went to stand in front of him. “Now, Grantaire, wait...”

Grantaire stopped with a sigh. “What,” he enquired a little more crossly than intended. Courfeyrac, who had been motioning to touch him, drew his hand away.

“I really didn’t know it was him! I must’ve seen the posts and thought they were from the group...”

Grantaire rubbed his face. “Why are you all following each other anyway? I thought you didn’t like people you know in real life following you!” he exclaimed accusingly.

“I let you follow me,” Courfeyrac remarked.

On his other side, Prouvaire chuckled. “We’re all following each other because we’re all lovely people, and because our protests are not, as Enjolras believes, inspired by his luminous personality, but by the fact that tumblr can reach a lot of people with similar opinions in a short time.”

He shrugged, and then smiled. “By the way, you’re not as shy as Courfeyrac made you seem.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Grantaire muttered, and decided that it was definitely time to leave those two to their wicked schemes of smiling and laughing at his pain. He went back to the table, where Marius was engrossed in a conversation with Eponine.

“I’m not saying he’s _wrong_ ,” he explained, gesturing with both of his hands, “but we’re not exactly in a place to liberally give all our money away as well. Any more money could destabilise _our_ economy, and then where would we all be?”

It took Grantaire less than three seconds to figure out that Marius was referring to Enjolras’ views on the economy crisis. He leaned back on his chair, beer bottle clutched in his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he set down the bottle on the table and pulled out his sketchpad – he should get a new one, this one was torn and dirty at the edges – and a pencil, and started idly drawing whatever came to his mind.

Eponine seemed wary – both of Marius views and of speaking too plainly.

“It is a problematic issue,” she half agreed, “but you have to admit that not helping at all would have lead to a row of states falling like dominoes.”

“Not France,” Marius interjected.

“Not France,” Eponine agreed reluctantly, “Not immediately.”

Marius seemed satisfied and moved on to whining about structural issues of the Greek bureaucracy. Grantaire half tuned out, focussing on his scribbling that was becoming more and more of a sketch, even when Courfeyrac came back to sit next to him. Gavroche seemed to have disappeared to somewhere, but Eponine was too busy watching Marius to notice, and Courfeyrac seemed more interested in peeking at the sketch on Grantaire’s lap.

“What are you drawing?”

Grantaire tried his best not to sigh. “A drawing.”

Courfeyrac was motioning to nudge him in the side but thought better of it when he remembered Grantaire was actually drawing. “Come on, R. I mean, what’s on it?”

Grantaire smirked. “A coloured representation of patriarchy in charcoal, ironized by the antique-classical art style while depicting a modern setting that lays bare the misogynistic and archaic features of our society.”

“I can never tell if you’re drunk or just full of shit,” Courfeyrac replied with a theatrical sigh.

Grantaire offered him a quick, friendly pat on the back. “That’s the plan.”

Courfeyrac got back up again. “I’ll talk to ‘Ferre for a bit. Don’t talk to strangers while I’m gone.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Grantaire waved him goodbye and focussed on the sketch – he hadn’t exactly been lying about the art style, it was vaguely recognisable as antique vase paintings – until a figure slumped down in the seat beside him. Grantaire recognised Bahorel by his black eye.

He was holding a bottle of tequila and two shotglasses. “Hold those, I gotta fetch the lemon and the salt,” he instructed and placed both in front of Grantaire without further ado before getting up again. Grantaire barely had time to put his sketchbook away – Greek vases for Greek warriors, how much more cliché could he get before someone punched him in the face – before Bahorel was back with a shit-eating grin and the promised lemon and salt.

“The plan goes as follows: I’ve got one bottle of tequila and roughly forty minutes to get to know you, unless Enjolras wants to hold his sermon early tonight. One glass means one question. And if by tomorrow we’ve both forgotten all of it, we’re doing it right.”

Grantaire reached for the bottle of tequila with a grin to match Bahorel’s and screwed off the cap. “I can work with that plan.”

The first two shots were poured, and Bahorel produced a Swiss Army Knife from one of the many pockets of his trousers to slice the lemon. Grantaire sprinkled salt onto the back of his hand, waited for Bahorel to raise his glass with a ‘bottoms up’ and licked off the salt, downed the tequila and bit into the lemon. A mix of sour bitterness and salt spread through his mouth, and he grimaced. The taste felt familiar, more familiar than the air of Paris in his lungs.

Bahorel raised his hand, his forehead creasing from the taste, too. “I get to go first! Do you really have a crush on Enjolras?”

Grantaire cursed and almost flung the slice of lemon in his hand across the room. “Christ, don’t you keep any secrets around here?”

“Is that your question?” Bahorel asked innocently, and Grantaire flipped him off.

“Courfeyrac has a flair for dramatics and can’t keep his mouth shut, and I might have said one or two things that could be interpreted in a certain way. I’ve never met him before, though.”

It wasn’t the entire truth, but it was close enough. Like hell would Grantaire go into details about how he’d spend some of his afternoons dreamily staring at a picture of Enjolras. This shit sounded creepy enough in his own head.

Bahorel nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Your turn.”

Since they didn’t seem to be paying much respect to personal boundaries, and partly because Grantaire wanted revenge for that first question, he asked, “Where’d you get that black eye?”

Bahorel’s grin bared teeth. “I got into a fight. Some guy had an opinion. I didn’t like it, I punched him, he punched me back, we settled it. Much more honest than anything else.”

Grantaire glanced at Bahorel’s knuckles that were red and cracked. “Do you get into fights often, then?”

Bahorel raised a finger to stop him. “Drink first.”

Grantaire shrugged and let Bahorel pour another drink into his glass. They finished them in silence, only accompanied by the clinking of glasses and the dull thump when the shotglasses were set back down on the table.

“Okay, so do you get into fistfights often?”

Grantaire repeated his question, and the light in the café seemed to burn more sharply, with the same warmth as the alcohol in his stomach.

“My friends insist I have a violent streak. I like to believe I’m simply testing my boundaries. I suppose I do fight more often than my friends, but never without reason.”

He regarded Grantaire with a curiously quirked eyebrow. “Do you fight, Grantaire?”

The bruises – swollen joints of fingers once broken that never quite grew back together like before, the scars on his knuckles – were plain visible to the trained eye, Grantaire supposed. For an artist, Courfeyrac always said, he had very uncharacteristic hands. Not gentle. Not gentle at all.

“I used to do kickboxing. Some regular boxing, too.”

He didn’t say why he stopped, and hoped to God Bahorel wouldn’t ask. Some cards were better kept close to his chest, no matter how open and amicable he’d like to be.

Bahorel filled their glasses for a third time, and the fuzzy warmth in his belly when he drank began to spread into his limbs, leaving his body tingling with sharp sensations that simultaneously dulled the world around him. Dark spots grew darker. The light grew too bright to look at. Grantaire kept his eyes fixed on the dark.

“Courfeyrac said you’d been to London. What were you doing there?”

Bahorel wasn’t slurring yet, but he spoke more slowly. Grantaire assumed that Bahorel had, just like himself, already had other drinks.

“I’m a cartoonist,” Grantaire explained, “I was given a six-month-trip to London in order to finish a cartoon on British society.”

Bahorel looked impressed. “Not bad. Easy money, huh?”

Grantaire laughed shallowly. “Yeah, right,” he said and quickly followed with his question. “So... you’re all trying to change the world here, right? What exactly is it that you’re doing?”

“Courfeyrac never explained?” Bahorel asked.

“He said something about lovely idiots,” Grantaire answered, “But no, he never explained.”

“I saw that post.” Bahorel sighed. “Well, I doubt I’m the best person to explain this, but I’ll give it a try for you. Basically, we’re showing up at random demonstrations, gatherings, speeches, the like, and counter-argue. Well, not _counter-argue_. It’s more like calling people out on their own bullshit. Those sorts of groups we target live on the lack of education of the public on a certain subject. We educate them. Give them perspective. Give them the tools to lead an actual debate on it instead of mindlessly repeating what they’ve been told.”

“And that works?” Grantaire scoffed. “You don’t just get your asses kicked? Or wait, is that the point?”

Bahorel roared with laughter. “I like you,” he said, “But that’s sadly not the point. Enjolras is a true idealist. Any change will do in his opinion, no matter the cost, and you are not worthy of _Patria_ if you’re not even trying.”

Grantaire perceived the amusement on Bahorel’s face with an equal smirk. He glanced over at Enjolras, and had to stifle a laugh when he saw the man reaching blindly for a bottle of coke on the table, missing it several times before actually getting a hold of it. In front of him, Bahorel raised an eyebrow. “Something funny?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Nothing, just...” He snorted. “The stark contrast between the fearless revolutionary you just described and the man over there who couldn’t even find his coke.”

“Been watching him, huh?” Bahorel sounded a little too smug for Grantaire’s liking as he reached for the bottle of tequila to pour the next round of drinks.

“We have to hurry,” he said, “Before Enjolras starts without me being properly drunk. He always gets so passionate the days before a protest...”

One of the glasses was pressed into Grantaire’s hand and subsequently downed immediately. There was almost no more taste to the lemon in his hand, and Grantaire put it away.

“So tell me, do you believe in what you’re doing here?”

Grantaire took pride in never slurring, no matter how much he drank, even when the world before his eyes went blurry and colourful like now.

Bahorel leaned back in his seat, keeping the glass in his left hand and turning it around absentmindedly. “I believe people need to open their fucking eyes and see that their opinion isn’t the only opinion worth listening to. And I believe in decreasing the amount of stupid in this seriously fucked up world. So yeah, I believe in what we do.”

He smiled deviously, and leaned forward. “And what do you make of us, R?”

Grantaire breathed out a huff. “Come on, I barely know you.”

Bahorel leaned back again and shrugged. “Well, that’s true.”

He reached for Grantaire’s glass and filled both again. “We’ll let it slide if you promise to give me an answer someday, should you like us enough to return.”

Grantaire took the glass. “Promise,” he said and waited for Bahorel to hand him a fresh slice of lemon. The salt burned on his lips when he licked it off the back of his hand.

“You said you do cartoons,” Bahorel voiced his next question, half leaning over and half leaning on the table, “What sorts of cartoons?”

Grantaire wasn’t sure if Bahorel was asking to see some of his work, but he didn’t reach for his sketchpad anyway. Sharing his art online, sure. Sharing it with another person – not so much.

“Political stuff. Caricatures. I work as a freelance artist for several newspapers. They ask me to make fun of someone, I do.”

Bahorel considered this with another impressed nod. “Not bad. So you’re like... into politics? You’ll fit right in here.”

Grantaire shifted in his seat. The bad thing about alcohol was that it made him a quick talker and a bad person. But then again, he always spoke before thinking.

“I think our system is full of shitheads with too much money to actually give a fuck, but we wouldn’t be better off with someone else because politics do that to a person, so why even bother. The best you can do is get a good laugh out of it.”

“You must have come truly far to acquire such wisdom.”

Bahorel, who had up to this point been silently chuckling at Grantaire’s words, raised his head with a frown, the same time as Grantaire turned to find out who was standing behind him, dropping snide side remarks on his statement.

He’d lost count of this day’s almost-heart-attacks, but this was just another one to add to the pile: Enjolras was standing behind him, most likely halfway to the bar or on the way back to get another coke and had now apparently decided to lecture Grantaire on the wrongness of his convictions. His voice was dripping with clean-cut sarcasm, like a bullet cast from hand-melted silver, preferably with Grantaire’s name on it.

And Grantaire was right there with him.

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard. You’re changing the world here. Is that actually what you believe or do you just have a martyr complex so big that your self-righteousness could fill the entire building? Because, newsflash, goldilocks, we’re all gonna die poor and alone and the imprint we’ll leave will only be one of carbon and spilled oil. Grow up.”

It took him a moment to catch up with his own words and match the look of infuriation and disdain on Enjolras’ face with what he’d just said. Infuriation, unfortunately, wasn’t quite the same as infatuation, and it made his stomach sink, but his chin stood out defiantly. He meant what he had said.

That didn’t change that there was a part of him that really wanted Enjolras to like him – possibly the same part that always wanted him to curl up on a sofa with Courf when he was drunk.

Still, he’d rather tell the truth than be liked. Or did he tell the truth in order to be liked? Shit, he didn’t know anymore.

“People like you are the reason why change is so hard to achieve. You tell yourselves you’re not going to do any good by being selfless, so you might as well be selfish, when really you’re just too much of a lazy coward to even try.”

Enjolras looked unyielding, as much as Grantaire looked defiant. And it really shouldn’t have given Grantaire more incentive – after all, he was only a guest here, and also stupidly in love – but it did.

“And why exactly are you so much better? Your protests are nothing more than the tantrum of a five-year-old. You’re achieving about as much change as I am. You just don’t want to admit that all your efforts are wasted, because you can’t bear to think that people will forget you.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure where the words came from, and mostly he was scared shitless, but that didn’t stop him talking anyway. Some part of his brain must have registered that he was currently spitting badly disguised insults at the guy he had been swooning over for the last few weeks, but that part was overtaken by the fact he couldn’t just let an argument slide when he had a point to make and an idealist to prove wrong. Years of carefully crafting himself into the perfectly sarcastic cartoonist had obviously paid off.

Also, damn, did Enjolras look good with that blatant annoyance and challenging defiance on his face. Grantaire was pretty sure his jaw had been carved by some divine sculptor for the exact purpose of terrifying and mesmerising possible opponents.

It didn’t make his knees weak. That would have been ridiculous considering he was still sitting.

“I’m not the one who’s scared by the prospect of oblivion,” declared Enjolras with something that reassembled humoured pity on his face, “After all, I’m not sliding into apathy, am I? Besides, I wouldn’t call twelve percent of increase on European awareness nothing.”

“Of course he has the numbers ready,” Grantaire mused, “Well, the only twelve percent I care about are the ones of alcohol in my beer.”

In front of him, Bahorel frowned and mouthed, “ _What kind of beer are you drinking_?”

Enjolras leaned forward, his brows furrowed, and sniffed. “You are dead drunk,” he stated.

“Not dead yet,” Grantaire countered – admittedly, not one of his best lines. He had kind of lost it with Enjolras in the general vicinity of his face.

Bahorel snorted and waved his hand to get Enjolras’ attention when the staring between him and Grantaire became too much for him to put up with. “Cut the guy some slack, it’s his first day here. You don’t want to scare him away just yet, do you?”

Enjolras’ attention turned to Bahorel, and the look on his face switched from stone-cold annoyance to fond annoyance. “If he throws up, I’ll blame you,” he said like Grantaire was Bahorel’s puppy and stalked off.

His ‘ _I will not tolerate idle drunks at our meetings_ ’ was still very audible to both of the men at the table, and it left Bahorel feeling slightly embarrassed and Grantaire with a sinking feeling in his heart.

Bahorel poured them another round of tequila.

Ξ|Ξ

Combeferre was just gathering his share of the papers together when Enjolras returned to their table with the scowl still transfixed on his face.

He stopped in front of the flyers on Italian elections they had been putting together last week, staring at the statistics as if they had personally wronged him – which they kind of had, because even after all the wake-up-calls and fuckups, the people still hadn’t seized their chance – but at the moment he wasn’t even focussing on the flyers.

Combeferre seemed to notice – he knew Enjolras, and he knew that shocked motionlessness wasn’t something that was brought about by statistics on Italian elections when it came to Enjolras. This was something new.

“Are you okay?” he asked with a concerned frown.

Enjolras blinked several times and shook his head. He himself realised he wasn’t the type to space out – not at all, he blamed it on the amount of happenings in Italy without realising he’d been staring at the flyers, those events must have left him mentally exhausted.

“It’s nothing, Combeferre,” he said and began assorting the flyers in neat stacks to hand them to his friends later. They would distribute the flyers all over the city, and some would be sent to similar groups in Marseille and Lyon.

Combeferre glanced at him from over the rims of his glasses. “You just had quite the discussion, huh?”

The crease on Enjolras’ forehead deepened again where it had just begun to relax, though not explicitly because of Combeferre. He just expressed his general discontentment with the turns the evening had taken.

“I informed Courfeyrac’s friend that his apathy and cynical convictions are not appreciated here.”

Combeferre nodded, the smile on his face almost unrecognisable. He always kept his emotions in check when dealing with Enjolras in a mood like this, because a calm guide always did wonders for the agitated mind of the student. Their friendship was one of mutual consideration and need of each other.

“Grantaire, right? Courfeyrac told me he’s a painter.”

Enjolras seemed unfazed. “I do not care if he’s a painter or a pole dancer, as long as he does it somewhere other than here.”

Combeferre found himself laughing despite himself. “Now there’s an image I did not need.” He frowned. “But really, what did he say? I haven’t seen you like this since... well, never.”

It was true. Enjolras was passionate about his protests; he was dedicated, but never this _angry_. His anger would be a calm, calculated, rational one, not one of hasty judgements and unjustified resentments. That wasn’t like him.

“He revokes the very idea of protesting, of speaking up. He would rather we all sit in silence and wait for the end. I don’t know why Courfeyrac would bring him here.”

Combeferre looked over to Grantaire, who was sitting at a table with Marius, Eponine and Bahorel, drinking and laughing with the latter. He seemed like a good man to make friends with, the way he and Bahorel had caught on. Looking back at Enjolras, Combeferre found himself thinking that maybe this hadn’t been Courfeyrac’s intention in bringing his friend here, but he had found an unexpected use for him in the group.

He was someone who was not afraid to challenge Enjolras, and that had shocked him.

Combeferre made a mental note to personally invite Grantaire to further meetings, when Enjolras took a break from assorting the flyers to put a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. “Please tell Courfeyrac to not invite Grantaire the next time,” he asked quietly, “It’s hard enough with everybody shouting as it is, and I don’t want someone here who will disturb our meetings on purpose.”

Combeferre sighed and nodded. “I’ll tell Courfeyrac,” he promised. If he forgot to do so till the next morning when he texted his friend, well, that wasn’t Enjolras problem. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. in which there are lonely hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire comforts Marius while Combeferre and Courfeyrac plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speightdaysaweek is hereby hired as my professional proofreader for ever and ever.

Grantaire was fixing himself dinner the next day, for the first time in what felt like ages, and he might have been humming along to a Misfits tune on his favourite radio station when Courfeyrac called, which was totally scary.

The dinner, of course, not Courfeyrac, because he had never cooked anything in London – all expenses were paid for, so he would just go out every night and write it off as a necessity – and it had become a sort of apathetic commodity, but now he was humming and stirring the milk into his Mac Cheese sauce and felt deliriously happy without a reason.

Also, more importantly, without alcohol.

When his phone rang – he blamed Disturbed’s mental opening for their cover of _Land of Confusion_ – he dropped the spoon into the pan and sent milk splashing everywhere, but mostly on his favourite green shirt. He cursed inwardly before grabbing the phone and pressing it between his shoulder and head, reaching for a towel with his free hands. “Grantaire, expert on alcohol poisoning and indie horror movies, how may I help you?”

On the other end of the line, Courfeyrac rested in stunned silence. Grantaire wiped off his shirt and the kitchen counter as good as possible and then went to retrieve the spoon. Unconsciously, he resumed humming under his breath.

Courfeyrac coughed. “Dude, I’m scared... Have you robbed a bank or something?”

Grantaire paused to think. “No. Why? Do you need money?”

Courfeyrac’s reply came slowly. “I was just wondering why you haven’t called me to complain about your hangover yet. And now I’m scared, because you’re joking and cheery and I really don’t have an explanation for that?”

Grantaire actually laughed – a proper, wholehearted, not-at-all sarcastic laugh. “I didn’t commit any crimes in at least three months,” he said and put down the spoon to fetch the cheddar cheese, “Two and a half, if you count that incident in Camden Lock, but I don’t and no one saw it anyway. And I didn’t drink enough to get a hangover yesterday, not by far.”

“Enjolras seemed to think you were almost ready to be hospitalised, the way he was complaining about you to Combeferre.”

Courfeyrac mentioned the name almost in passing, but suddenly it all came back to Grantaire, crashing like a pile of highly-staked books – the reason for his inexplicable happiness, Enjolras, but also the slight discomfort yesterday night had brought. He put down the cheese and left the sauce to boil for a bit while sitting down on the floor. Some of his appetite had left when Courfeyrac had reminded him of the impression he had left on Enjolras.

That was why he usually didn’t poke at his happiness, didn’t look for a reason when he felt good. There was always something to knock it over. There was always something _wrong_.

Sometimes – most of the times – he began to think it was because of him.

“Are you still there?” Courfeyrac asked when Grantaire just stayed silent, and he probably had every right to sound at least slightly concerned. Maybe he’d only just remembered what Grantaire had told him about Enjolras. It wasn’t his fault. “Hey, look, it wasn’t that bad, okay? He wasn’t _complaining_ , he was only saying--”

Grantaire cut him short. “It’s okay. I just had to check the macaroni.”

“You’re having Mac Cheese? Can I come over?”

Courfeyrac sounded so delighted that Grantaire didn’t have it in himself to say no.

Ξ|Ξ

“Ah, Mac Cheese. Food of the Gods.”

Courfeyrac had helped himself to another portion two times, and still looked like he could devour more. Sometimes Grantaire wasn’t sure he was entirely human, with his smile and his appetite and his endless patience when it came to his friends, but then his friend sat down and burped at the table and Grantaire only nodded, recognising him once more.

“Are you broke again? Because you don’t need to praise my mediocre cooking skills just to get a free meal.”

Courfeyrac shook his head, a delighted smile spread across his face. “Nope, I just really love macaroni. And cheese.”

He pushed his plate over to Grantaire. “And since I am the guest in your house, I am naturally free of any duties when it comes to doing the dishes.”

Grantaire sent him a dirty look, but took his plate and moved it to the kitchen along with his own, Courfeyrac trailing behind him lazily, briefly checking his phone.

“Speaking of houses,” Grantaire noted while letting water pour into the sink, “You said you’d look into apartments for me. Found anything?”

Courfeyrac looked up from his phone, then pocketed it again. “Sorry, no. It’s a bit difficult at the moment, but we’ll find something cheap and nice. How long can you stay here?”

“Another two months, but I’d rather not. The hot water here is not exactly trustworthy.”

Grantaire grimaced at the memory of coming home drunk, only wanting to get a quick, warm shower before falling into bed, and in the middle of it being surprised by a sudden influx of freezingly cold water. It had taken him two hours to fall asleep after that.

Courfeyrac chuckled. “Yeah, okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

He leaned against the kitchen counter while Grantaire attempted to clean the plates, getting more foam on his shirt than anything else.

“I’ve got something else for you, though,” Courfeyrac said and reached for his bag, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pen. “I’ve talked to the owner of the Musain yesterday night and asked if they needed another hand. He said yes.”

Grantaire put down the plate he’d been scrubbing – it went down in the sink with a dull thud – and glanced at the paper suspiciously. “You do realise I have a job?”

Courfeyrac pushed the papers into his hands. “You haven’t had a job since your paycheck for the London thing arrived. That’s the disadvantage of the _freelance_ part of your job. Take that goddamn contract and make some money, because I’m not gonna pay for your alcohol.”

Grantaire sighed and looked at the contract. The money seemed okay, and it wasn’t like his working hours wouldn’t coincide with his regular sleeping schedule anyway. He shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Where do I sign?”

Courfeyrac’s face lit up. He handed Grantaire the pen and pointed at the dotted line on the bottom of the page. “There you go.”

Grantaire signed, his handwriting a tad shaky, and handed the contract back. Courfeyrac took it, just when his phone started ringing.

“Wait, that’s a text,” he muttered and quickly shoved the contract back into his bag before reaching for his phone. His forehead creased while reading. “I just... damnit, I need to call Combeferre.”

He went out into the living room and closed the door behind himself while Grantaire finished the dishes in silence. The door kept him from telling what Courfeyrac was doing, but when all he could hear was a steady string of muffled words, he went for the glasses in the cabinet over the sink, reached for a bottle that was resting half empty next to a flower pot with a withered cactus – how did cacti even wither? – and poured himself a drink.

It did wonders for the slight tremor in his hands.

Courfeyrac returned eventually, his hair slightly ruffled, and Grantaire could tell it must have been some sort of emergency, because that was when Courfeyrac messed up his hair like that. “Okay, I’ve got to go.”

Grantaire nodded, the now empty glass sitting behind him in the sink, next to the plates. He’d decided to let them soak before attempting to get the cheese off. That was always easier.

“See you,” he muttered, and poured himself another drink when he heard the door slam shut.

Only twenty minutes later did he realise that he hadn’t even asked Courfeyrac when he was supposed to start at the Musain.

Ξ|Ξ

Grantaire started drawing angrily after Courfeyrac had gone, like he could fill the empty feeling in his chest with alcohol and broad sweeps of his pencil on a sheet of paper. Needless to say, it didn’t work.

He pulled out his tablet when the tip of his pencil broke off for the second time, and pretended it was to actually draw up some sketches he could send to some papers to get a job, and not so he had an excuse to get on the computer again. He tapped the pen that came with his tablet on the edge of his laptop while the computer was starting, and then logged on to tumblr before opening any other program.

It didn’t take him that long to get to Enjolras’ posts on his dashboard. His heart did some silly sort of jump every time he even vaguely recognised the colours of the guy’s icon, and to be frank, it felt quite pitiful.

Still, he couldn’t help but pay attention.

It wasn’t that the argument from yesterday night wasn’t still on his mind. It was there, alright, and it felt pretty ugly, even though he didn’t regret what he had said. What made it worse was the fact that now, looking at some text posts Enjolras had drawn up on various political issues in Germany’s European policy, he couldn’t help but feel interested, in a way he usually avoided. In all honesty, he probably would have dismissed the article had it come from anyone but Enjolras.

He was interested in politics, alright, but not in the same way as Enjolras and his friends. His job had required him to see everything with irony and comment on everything with sharp sarcasm, and now he couldn’t really go back. He’d done it for so long that he now believed in the futility of everything. The prospect of being able to change the world was just as laughable as the idea of the European Union one day matching the USA in terms of global importance.

He definitely didn’t spend his time attentively reading about it.

Well, not until now.

He reblogged the article, and then quickly reblogged two or three gifs from Supernatural or maybe Grey’s Anatomy, he wasn’t even sure, to cover it up. He just hoped Courf wasn’t online to make fun of him through his askbox.

He left tumblr open while opening photoshop, but the sketch that came out wasn’t even remotely close to a political parody. Maybe if somebody was willing to give him a euro for every time he drew that goddamn face he’d only just yesterday had the honour of seeing in person, he would become rich, and also eventually grow tired of those features that haunted him every time he picked up a pen.

He could always tell he’d had too much to drink too early in the day when he got sentimental.

When Grantaire refreshed tumblr, it was to find a new message in his askbox. He scratched his head and opened it, half expecting it to be Courfeyrac, but it was from someone he didn’t know.

_hey, um, this is marius, courf gave me your url. i need somewhere to crash and he says i can’t come to his place because he’s having a secret meeting with ‘ferre. would u mind if i came over to your place for maybe two hours?_

Grantaire looked around his apartment with a bewildered expression. There were clothes strewn all over the floor, and the plates from his lunch were still waiting in the kitchen sink. Courfeyrac never minded, but they had been friends since what felt like forever. He hadn’t minded Marius yesterday, sure, the guy had seemed alright, even though his political views weren’t exactly what Grantaire would call sensible. But their brief conversation wasn’t in any way what Grantaire considered a basis for the start of a friendship.

He was just about to close the browser when another message showed up.

_btw, ur a friend now so please excuse. courf says i have a big heart xX_

Grantaire laughed, and wrote back: _come over anytime. you get bonus points if you bring pizza._

Ξ|Ξ

Combeferre opened the door to find an angry Courfeyrac glaring at him, which really was all manners of adorable.

“How are you?” he asked with a polite smile and moved aside to make room for Courfeyrac to enter. The dark-haired student snorted.

“We really need to talk about your timing, ‘Ferre.”

He looked around carefully. “Enjolras isn’t here, is he?”

“What do you think?”

Combeferre closed the door on the couple of students shouting in the hallway of the dorm. His and Enjolras’ shared apartment was pretty much the opposite of Courfeyrac’s flat – the walls were blank, except for one or two books nothing was lying around, and the mini-fridge Combeferre had bought a couple of months ago was always stacked with fresh food.

“So he’s here,” Courfeyrac replied with a crushed look, “Great, ‘Ferre, we _really_ need to talk about--”

“I know, and that’s why I made sure he’s out.”

Combeferre smiled with the slightest hint of pride and steered Courfeyrac to the table in the middle of the room. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No, I’m good.” Courfeyrac placed his mobile on the table. “Okay, so what exactly _happened_ yesterday?”

Combeferre took his place opposite of Courfeyrac with a sigh. “Your friend left a lasting impression, and Enjolras can’t handle criticism when it comes in the form of cynicism. Or more likely, he’s never had anyone so completely _disagree_ with him.”

Courfeyrac buried his face in his hands. “It surely wasn’t that bad, right? I mean, Bahorel liked him!”

“That tells you a lot about his chances with Enjolras,” Combeferre mused, “I mean, have you seen the kind of people he hangs out with when he’s not with us?”

“We really need to sort this out,” Courfeyrac muttered decidedly. One of his hands absentmindedly clutched the bag on his lap.

“I understand you want your friend to get out a bit,” Combeferre said slowly, “but I don’t exactly understand why you get so worried about Enjolras not liking him. It’s not like he hugs people and hands out cookies on a regular basis, he cares in a different way.”

Courfeyrac simply reached into his bag and pulled out the contract. “That’s why,” he said.

Combeferre took the paper and scanned it quickly, looking over the rims of his glasses like a true scholar. The sweater vest didn’t help – it was like he was trying to outmatch Prouvaire’s ridiculous choice of clothing without really trying at all.

He handed the contract back with a frown. “I thought you said he drew cartoons for newspapers.”

“Half of the time he’s too lazy to apply for anything, and for the rest he’s drunk. He needs some money to get by, and I found him a job.”

Courfeyrac sighed. “He’s a great guy, really. I mean, you met him. But for the rest... it’s like he decided not to do anything with his life.”

Combeferre smiled at Courfeyrac being his usual overly worried self when it came to his friends. He’d never encountered someone with a heart quite as big, and for the relatively short time Courfeyrac had been part of their little group, he had made himself indispensable. Well, maybe indispensable was the wrong word – it was more that nobody would have wanted him to leave ever again, and Courfeyrac returned the sentiment.

“You do realise it’s more than a little bit condescending of us to talk about his life like we’re to decide what he’s doing with it,” Combeferre threw in, “I mean, he really can do what he wants. And we, as well as Enjolras, shouldn’t stop him from doing that.”

Courfeyrac sighed. “I know. I just got so worried after last night that I didn’t know anymore. I mean, Grantaire is one of my oldest friends but I also really like all of you and so I wanted you all to like each other and I wanted Grantaire to get the job and it could have been really awesome but now it sucks.”

Combeferre leaned over the table and patted Courfeyrac’s arm. “Hey. Enjolras can take being around someone who doesn’t agree with what he says and Grantaire can do what he wants. And the others liked him, so where’s the problem?”

A smile was beginning to spread on Courfeyrac’s face again slowly. “I’m glad to know we’re on the same page.”

Combeferre’s shrug lacked the nonchalance he was trying to emit. “I thought Enjolras’ reaction was over the top anyway.”

Courfeyrac got up, flinging his bag over his shoulder. “Okay, great. Do you think we need to prepare Enjolras? Give him some time to make up some extra arguments?”

Combeferre laughed. “He’s not made of porcelain, you know?”

Courfeyrac shook his head and moved for the door. Combeferre followed him and held the door open. Courfeyrac hugged him as a goodbye and smiled. “Oh, just one more thing,” he said, standing in the doorway, “Grantaire is hopelessly in love with Enjolras, but he wants to keep it a secret.”

Combeferre yanked him back into the apartment with surprising strength, and it was the first time Courfeyrac had heard him utter a curse. “What the flying fuck, Courf?”

Ξ|Ξ

“Thanks for letting me crash here.”

Marius had brought his laptop, and also two bags of chips and a giant pizza Hawaii – which, frankly, was atrocious, because who ate their pizza with _pineapple_? – and looked thoroughly glad to be here. Grantaire noticed he was wearing his shirt inside out, but decided not to comment on it.

“Anytime,” he said instead, and took the pizza and the chips so Marius to take off his coat, “Why’d you need to get out anyway?”

A comically pained expression crossed Marius’ features. “The people in the room next to mine are having really loud sex.”

Grantaire stifled a laugh. “Good for them.”

Luckily, Marius was too caught up in elaborating on his pain. “And I tried to call Courfeyrac, but he said he was busy and gave me your url.”

He sat down on the sofa with his laptop bag clutched tightly to his chest like a security blanket. Grantaire followed him and put the pizza box on the table, trying not to wince because of the pineapple. Marius, however, actually seemed less miserable for seeing the pizza. He grabbed a slice and leaned back, and Grantaire once more resigned himself to sitting and eating on the ground. Really, though, the furniture situation in his apartment was crap.

“Thanks for the pizza,” he said and dug in despite the pineapple, because who was he to deny free food?

Marius sighed theatrically. “You know, I wasn’t even supposed to be at the dorm today. I had plans to meet up with Cosette, but her father took her on a surprise short trip to London.”

When he found Grantaire frowning, he quickly added, “Cosette, she’s sort of, well... she’s not my girlfriend, and we’re not exactly dating, either, except we are... somewhat.”

He smiled lopsidedly. “I am boring you, right? I’ve been known to do that.”

Grantaire decided Marius probably had a heart as big as Courfeyrac’s, only with less of a lucky hand when it came to actually dealing with people.

“Go on,” he laughed, “I don’t mind.”

His sketch pad was sitting on the kitchen counter, and he was glad for the distraction of having someone around, because it gave him an excuse to not actually do anything. As long as Marius was here, he could pretend he was doing something for a friend... acquaintance... whatever.

“Well, I met here a couple of weeks ago when I picked up Eponine from work – she doesn’t have a car, you see, hers broke down like a year ago – and it’s this sort of kindergarten only it’s in the afternoon and they’re giving French lessons for kids who come from families where it’s not the first language and I went in because the kids are all adorable, and then there she was... Cosette.”

At this point, he actually sighed, and Grantaire decided if he could be exasperatedly fond of one person, it would be Marius. He looked lost in the memory, a slice of pizza sitting half forgotten in his hand.

“Eponine got me her number and we went out a few times but I don’t know if she just likes me or if she _likes_ me and I mean I can’t just ask her, can I?”

He looked to Grantaire and repeated, “Can I?”

Grantaire shrugged and grabbed another slice of pizza. “I don’t know that much about dating.”

“But you know about being in love,” Marius insisted.

Grantaire frowned. “Okay, now where did you get that impression?”

Marius pointed at his laptop accusingly. “There was... I looked through some of your posts... and you seemed... interested? In Enjolras?”

Grantaire couldn’t help the blush. He wasn’t even prone to blushing, not usually, but somehow everything he usually did was somehow not valid when it came to Enjolras. So he blushed, and cursed silently. “That is not... how can you even tell that?”

Marius laughed silently and averted Grantaire’s eyes when he replied. “Well, there’s a lot of his face on his blog for once... and you always just reblog his stuff, you never comment on it.”

“I do that with Courf, too,” Grantaire grumbled, “And I don’t see you insisting I’m in love with him.”

“Well, the biggest clue was that text post from last night,” Marius said.

Grantaire looked up in shock. “What text post?”

“The one you made?” Marius replied carefully, as if treading on a mine field. Apparently, he was used to saying the wrong things.

“I didn’t make a text post,” Grantaire said, but Marius was already opening his laptop. There was a deep crease on his forehead as typed, but it softened when he exclaimed in triumph. “Here!”

Grantaire flopped down next to him on the sofa and frowned at the screen. Sure enough, that was his blog, and that was his drunk typing ability, but he couldn’t remember typing the words... which probably was another indicator for the fact that this was, indeed, a drunk text post he’d made yesterday night.

 _golden-haired greek warriors are ctue even when theyre yeelling at u_ *.*

“I didn’t write that,” was his first reaction, and then he buried his face in his hands. “Oh god, I did and it’s embarrassing.”

He looked up again. “Give me your laptop,” he said, grabbed the laptop from Marius before he could protest and logged on to delete the post before anybody else saw it. He breathed out a sigh of relief. “Okay, thanks.”

Marius took the laptop back with a grin. “So you do know a thing or two about being in love.”

“As you can tell, I’m probably not the best person to go to for advice,” Grantaire replied, his arms crossed and his brows furrowed, “This was as far from something you should do as possible. And furthermore, I’m not going to give you relationship advice. You can ask Courf for that.”

Marius was still looking at him when Grantaire peered at him from the corner of his eye. “Is it going to be a problem that I’m having a ridiculous crush on your carved-from-marble, student-revolutionary, I-eat-organic-food-and-take-the-bike friend?”

Marius laughed and shook his head. “By god, no. I was just wondering how someone could have a crush on Enjolras.”

“Well, you fell in love after seeing a girl for approximately five seconds.”

“True.” Marius sighed. “He doesn’t take the bike, by the way. He’s a big fan of the metro.”

“More opportunities to enlighten the people?” Grantaire guessed, relaxing again. At least Marius wasn’t going to judge him for his crush, and it felt nice to have someone in a similar situation to talk to – though he would never admit that out loud, that would be ridiculous.

“You figured it out.” Marius grinned. “No, really, I think they arrested him once because he wouldn’t stop shouting on the train. It was justified, though – something with a guy harassing another and Enjolras stepping in. He didn’t get in trouble for it.”

Grantaire snorted and tried not to act too impressed. “Sounds like him,” he muttered, and then quickly changed the subject before he could get into an actual conversation about his emotions with Marius of all people. “Wanna watch a movie?”

Marius shrugged. “Sure.”

In hindsight, Grantaire probably shouldn’t have picked Dr. Horrible of all the things to watch. Marius really did have a big heart, and he’d declared himself to be in love with Penny not even five minutes into the movie.

It ended about as well as one would expect.

Ξ|Ξ

There was a message in his askbox on Thursday, six days after the disastrous meeting with Enjolras.

Grantaire couldn’t really help the surge of hope he felt at the little red box popping up, his first thought also being the most unrealistic one – _Enjolras messaged me, Enjolras noticed me_ – but he quickly resigned himself to fail-safe cynicism once more.

He’d only just gotten up, and was still feeling sleepy and slightly boneless from the warmth of his blankets, and, possibly, the warmth of his laptop next to him. Something seemed to be wrong with the fan.

As it turned out, not getting his hopes up had been a good decision. The message was from Courfeyrac, who had changed his icon once more, this time to a picture of himself wearing a Darth Vader mask. Sometimes Grantaire wondered what Courf did during the rest of the day to convince his colleagues he was a responsible adult.

_You have a shift tonight from seven to midnight. Also, LucasArts has just been bought by EAGames._

Grantaire rolled his eyes – _fondly_ – and hit _answer_.

_There is a God, Courfeyrac, but you are not in his good books. I’ll be there._


	4. in which there are video games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire cheats. Bahorel cheats. Enjolras is tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a celebratory chapter because i finished my exams and now I'm out of school forever. By the way, I love you guys.

Grantaire quickly learnt that the Musain was quieter on Thursday nights than it was on Fridays. He’d been handed a towel, a price list and a key to the cash register and then been left to look after the bar while his co-worker headed out for a smoke. He would have protested, except he would have probably done the same thing if it hadn’t been his first day here.

At least it was relatively quiet.

Grantaire closed his eyes and leaned against the dishwasher behind him. The steady rumbling almost drowned out the conversations of the few people in the room, and it soothed the headache he could feel beginning to form.

“Back so soon?”

Grantaire opened his eyes at the sound of a familiar voice, and spotted Feuilly leaning against the bar.

“What can I say, I liked the beer.” Grantaire smiled, arms spread in an apologetic gesture. He almost knocked over the sketchpad he’d pulled out of his bag earlier in the hope he could get some drafts done.

“Yeah, speaking of those,” Feuilly said, “Can I have one?”

Grantaire nodded, sliding open the fridge and reaching for an ice-cold bottled beer to hand Feuilly. It opened with a satisfying hiss.

“Here you go.”

Feuilly took the beer and pressed it to his forehead first before sighing. Grantaire tried – in vain – not to be too interested in Feuilly’s reasons for being here. “Are you guys having a meeting tonight?”

Feuilly snorted, the beer halfway to his mouth. Grantaire noticed grease-stains – or were those ink-stains? – on his wrists, where washing hands wouldn’t quite catch the residue. “Thank God no. I’m just dropping by for a beer before I head over to Jehan’s place. We’re playing Dungeons and Dragons with Bahorel and Eponine.”

Grantaire received an angry glare for his amused grin.

“What,” Feuilly demanded.

“Not that I can talk, but Courf made you out to be this bunch of really politically motivated students when you’re really just a bunch of nerds,” he mused.

Feuilly rolled his eyes. “Everybody needs a hobby. Besides, we’re all on tumblr, what did you expect?”

“Well, I haven’t seen any rants about new Star Trek versus old Star Trek on Enjolras’ blog, so I assumed you were all business and serious blogging. I stand corrected, however.”

“You’ve been looking at his blog quite thoroughly, haven’t you?” Feuilly raised an eyebrow. “He would probably write essays about that, too, given the chance. But the fandoms always end up hating him for taking things too seriously. He has yet to find a way not to care about things so much.”

Feuilly took a sip from his beer and put it down on the counter again with a slight smile. Another customer showed up at the bar, and Grantaire strolled over to take his order while Feuilly pushed up his sleeves and relaxed, at least until Grantaire heard him curse under his breath.

“Ah, damnit, you got a napkin or something?”

He was staring at the stains on the back of his arms as if he was hoping he would develop laser eyes to erase them. Grantaire reached under the counter and pulled out some paper towels he held under the water for a moment and then handed Feuilly.

“You better tip me for that,” he remarked while Feuilly tried to scrub the stains off his light skin. He only succeeded in smearing the black further.

“How’d you get those anyway?” Grantaire asked, leaning back against the dishwasher again.

“There was a little accident at the press today,” Feuilly explained, “Some moron spilled ink and didn’t clean up all of it, and by the end of the day we all looked like coal miners.”

Grantaire laughed at the image. “So... you work at the newspaper?” he asked curiously. He’d simply assumed all of them were university students with the time to spare for protest. Then again, so far none of them had fitted the image of a snobbish political activist Grantaire had conjured up in his mind when Courfeyrac had first told him about the new friends he’d made.

And Feuilly seemed pretty down-to earth.

“Only on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays,” Feuilly answered, “I’m at university like the others, but enlightenment alone unfortunately doesn’t feed me.”

“I feel you,” Grantaire sighed and cast a reproachful look at his sketchpad. The sketch was still rough, crude even, and not even half as funny as he would have liked.

Feuilly followed his line of sight. “That yours?”

Grantaire probably had himself to blame for that question – he didn’t want attention for his cartoons, he’d only ever wanted money and enough recognition from the right people to get him that second job, and because of that he had never become practiced in the art of showing off his drawings.

“It’s just a sketch,” he said, and tried to rack his brain for the paragraphs of his contract detailing drinking on the job. The bar was empty save for Feuilly and the other customer, and Grantaire could hear clanking in the kitchen, which probably meant that his co-worker was back from his break.

“Can I see it?” Feuilly asked, and Grantaire handed the sketchpad to him. It really was nothing more than a sketch – there was no clear point or criticism to it, just important figures of European politics drawn in comical ways in the hope of inspiring something wittier.

Too bad his only source of news at the moment was Enjolras’ blog.

It really was unbecoming for a professional cynic to suddenly lose his integrity over an overly-enthusiastic would-be-revolutionary.

“Those are really good,” Feuilly remarked, clearly impressed, and Grantaire sighed quietly. He didn’t act self-consciously to get compliments, he _knew_ he could draw; it was just that he really didn’t know what to do with compliments upon receiving them. Picture being handed a baby for the first time, only multiple times and with the mother rushing off elsewhere.

Feuilly saved him the awkwardness of having to find an answer, though. “Wait, I know that style. We’ve printed some cartoons like these at our newspaper. Are you R?”

“Courfeyrac’s gonna weep blood,” Grantaire replied, “He’s been introducing me as R for three years now in the hope people will recognise me, and the one time he doesn’t it’s when someone could actually appreciate it.”

He took the sketch back from Feuilly and shoved it into his backpack under the counter. Feuilly looked intrigued, half leaning over the bar, beer clutched tightly in his hand. He’d succeeded in getting rid of most of the ink on his arms, but there were still spots where his skin had an unnatural greyish tone.

“No, really, the stuff you do is pretty great. We used to have a whole series of your cartoons, it’s the same paper where Courf works, but they discontinued it, what...”

And Grantaire could feel the question, the _what happened_ , and then Feuilly’s darting eyes, and already knew of the conclusion the other man would come to: wrinkled clothes, dark shadows under Grantaire’s eyes, trembling hands, an addict, maybe on the mend, and like everyone else would decide to avoid the topic more or less gracefully. As if Grantaire needed any more reasons to hate himself – it was always worse when he got to see it through the eyes of another yet again.

“...what happened?” Feuilly finished, and took a sip of his beer as if to swallow the regret of possibly having said the wrong thing. He looked at Grantaire with anticipation, his eyebrows raised, but he still seemed sure of himself.

Grantaire was strangely glad – and also very much sick of people tiptoeing when he knew they weren’t doing it for his benefit, but for theirs. This was relaxing.

He laughed, a barking, bleak laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “What do you think? I drank, I hit rock-bottom, couldn’t get shit done and almost landed on the street twice. I was never employed at that paper, I was working as a freelancer, and when I failed to keep to the deadline for the third time they politely informed me that there would be no more room for my stuff in their paper. I can hardly blame them.”

Feuilly didn’t seem fazed. “I hope that beer I gave you didn’t throw you back into a loop or something,” he remarked before drinking again, and Grantaire had to keep himself from laughing again at how easy Feuilly took this.

“I never swore off, so you’re free of any blame,” he said, “And it’s really not that bad. It sounds worse than it actually was at the time for me – Courfeyrac might have had it hard, he was the one who took care of me.”

“Courfeyrac does that,” Feuilly answered, “He’s great, really.”

“He is,” Grantaire agreed, twirling the towel in his hand and leaning forward to wipe off the counter. They fell into a sort of silence that followed those kinds of conversations where every possible topic had been exhausted, but starting a new one would seem disrespectful. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was an understanding that they had things to say to each other, at their next meeting, maybe. Just not now.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Feuilly said after tucking a ten-euro-bill under the bowl of peanuts while putting on his jacket, “It’d be great to have you at our meetings regularly.”

Grantaire had no doubt he meant it. Feuilly seemed like a man who didn’t waste his words. Also he tipped pretty great for a guy who had to work a job to get himself through university.

Ξ|Ξ

Grantaire got lucky on his shift the following night.

Luck, in this case, was of course relative – he said luck in the sense that there was another meeting, not luck in the general good sense. He would have probably been better off without adding more fuel to the fire of his obsession.

The café was just beginning to fill with students and the occasional businessman who’d just clocked off, and Grantaire was busy handing out beer and Irish coffee and whiskey and whatnot, so busy, in fact, that he didn’t notice the halo of blond curls in the mass of heads and faces.

Until said halo-framed warrior was standing in front of him at the bar.

“Holy shitballs!” Grantaire cursed before he could stop himself, and his stomach lurched painfully. The lingering taste of his last drink suddenly felt repulsive and almost sickening.

Enjolras frowned, and Grantaire took a deep breath. His shaking hands were hid under the counter. “Sorry, what can I get you?”

“Coffee, please,” Enjolras said. He was looking right past Grantaire, and Grantaire was hit with the realisation that the frown wasn’t directed at him – it looked more like Enjolras was unsuccessfully trying to fight off a headache and hadn’t even properly noticed Grantaire.

“Are you sure?” Grantaire asked tentatively. “You don’t look so well.”

Suddenly, Enjolras’ eyes fixed on him and his frown deepened. “You,” he said, “What are you doing here?”

Grantaire blinked in confusion. His hands had stopped shaking all of a sudden – the sound of accusation and displeasure in Enjolras’ voice enough to provide a challenge to shake him out of his mooning. “I work here,” he stated, and then added defiantly, “Some of us don’t have rich parents to get us through life.”

He crossed his arms, not yet moving over to the coffeemaker. To be frank, Enjolras looked ready for a whiskey, but the best would probably be a hot shower, a cup of camomile and a bed.

Enjolras’ stare equalled Grantaire’s in its defiance. “How would you know about my parents?”

Grantaire smirked and pointed at Enjolras’ shirt – the logo of some expensive private school was fading, but still recognisable. “I mean, you could be some kind of prodigy, but my guess is that you just really made use of that expensive education of yours. You don’t look like the scholarship type.”

Enjolras scoffed. “Well, then how would the _scholarship type_ look?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Wasting less time with political activism and spending more time studying.”

Enjolras looked properly offended. He had this way of puffing up; like he was trying to appear bigger then he actually was – which was unnecessary, he was slightly taller than Grantaire anyway – whenever an argument got heated. Needless to say, Grantaire thought it was adorable, and possibly terrifying at the same time.

“I am not… _wasting my time_ with this!”

“I know, I know…” Grantaire’s voice was patronising, and he leaned forward _leering_. He’d become so practised at this – making fun of everything and everyone, not giving a care in the world and never letting those who believed themselves on top stay there if he could help it – that it was almost impossible to snap out of it. It was his default setting. “I’ve _seen_ your protests. You’re _changing_ things.”

Enjolras actually seemed surprised, and Grantaire’s stomach twisted again. Had he said too much? Surely Enjolras wouldn’t think of tumblr and one blog amongst thousands _now_ …

“Have you?” the student asked with a raised eyebrow, and even that looked ridiculously elegant on his face. No matter what he did, everything seemed to be in perfect balance when it came to his features, Enjolras face simply couldn’t go _wrong_ , and it annoyed Grantaire as much as it fascinated him.

He hoped to God Enjolras would blame his flustered state on Grantaire being called out on a bad lie instead of Grantaire having revealed more of himself than he’d wanted to. Sometimes talking before thinking got really, really inconvenient. He wished he could stop.

“Bahorel told me,” he said, shrugging it off, “You seem to mean well, but some people just don’t wanna see the flipside of the coin. End of story.”

The set of Enjolras‘ jaw was firm, twitching slightly as if in disgust and barely contained anger. Their stares were locked, caught in the refusal to look away first, before Enjolras spoke again.

“You seem to be proof of that,” he said, and marched off without his drink.

Ξ|Ξ

The others showing up was a relief for Grantaire.

First of all, he had more orders to take, which meant he had less time to occupy his thoughts with Enjolras sitting at his table with a frown and a book and still no coffee, and secondly it meant company for him, this time in the form of Courfeyrac.

“How’s it going?” his friend asked with a smile, and Grantaire took a break from preparing drinks long enough to smile back.

“Good,” he said, “You know, you could almost believe I’m actually enjoying this.”

“Glad to know.”

His manner was joking, but Grantaire knew that there was honest concern hidden under his words. He never complained, why would he – Courfeyrac had taken care of him when he’d been at his worst, and he still wasn’t sure he wouldn’t snap right back again given the chance.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked, and reached under the counter to pull out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s he wiggled suggestively in front of Courfeyrac’s face. Courfeyrac sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.

“You know, for once, I’ll have to pass. I’ve been told we’re actually doing something tonight, so I’d best be sober.”

“I’m not planning on getting you drunk,” Grantaire replied, acting offended, “Just relaxed enough to actually deal with all of this political shit.”

“It’s not shit,” Courfeyrac insisted.

“Activism,” Grantaire corrected himself, holding up a finger, “I’m _terribly_ sorry.”

Courfeyrac laughed, shaking his head. “One, okay? And you don’t get any. If you keep drinking on the job you’ll be out of here faster than out of London after you saw that first picture of Enjolras.”

Grantaire turned his back on him pointedly, muttering “ _I don’t need shitty friends like you_ ” and “ _I only had one drink_ ” under his breath. He poured the dark liquid into a glass with practiced ease, and then turned back to put it in front of Courfeyrac a bit harder than necessary. “Here you go.”

Courfeyrac gulped it down in one go. Grantaire just smirked and waited for the inevitable cough.

“Christ,” Courfeyrac uttered when he had managed to get the air back into his lungs, “This never stops being a bad idea, does it?”

“You’re doing fine,” Grantaire assured him, “Now go and change the world before I talk you into taking another drink.”

Courfeyrac got up with a smile and made his way over to the group of students at the table, waving at his friends excitedly.

“And don’t forget to tip me, motherfucker,” Grantaire called half-heartedly.

Ξ|Ξ

Grantaire couldn’t help it, his gaze always shifted back to Enjolras at the table. He looked tired, even more so from afar than close up – his shoulders were slumped, his hair tangled and messy, and his shirt looked more like something he’d wear to sleep than while being awake.

It almost made Grantaire regret his harsh words – almost.

After all, he still had two things he refused to give up: his dignity, and the stash of cheap wine under his bed.

Combeferre showed up shortly after Courfeyrac, carrying a large pile of books and a laptop bag over his shoulder, his glasses slightly askew on his nose. “Hi,” he said with a smile, “Can I get a coke?”

Grantaire nodded and went into the back to get another bottle of coke – those at the bar had already been emptied – when a thought crossed his mind. He returned with the coke and flipped on the coffeemaker.

“Hold on a second,” he said to Combeferre, “I’ll fix your friend a coffee, he looks like he needs it.”

Combeferre, setting his pile of books down on the counter, turned towards Enjolras, and a look of concern crossed his features. “What on earth happened to him?”

Grantaire shrugged. “He already looked like a ghost when he came in. Give him that, will you?”

He handed Combeferre the coffee – and it wasn’t a regular coffee, because the only thing better than caffeine was caffeine spiked up with some alcohol – and the coke he had ordered. Combeferre thanked him with a nod and carried the two drinks over to the table, then returned to pay and take his books. When he wanted to pay for the coffee too, Grantaire shook his head. “On the house.”

“Can you do that?” Combeferre asked critically, “You’ve only been working here for a few days, haven’t you?”

Grantaire shrugged, trying not to appear too invested. That would be bad for his image. “On me, then,” he said, took some coins from his jeans pocket and dropped them in the cash register. “At least I can sleep in the knowledge of having done something good tonight. Isn’t that what you’re all about?”

Combeferre’s smile was honest, albeit not overly prominent. He was easier to deal with than Enjolras, that was for sure.

Combeferre put the coffee down in front of Enjolras, and the student looked up with a grateful expression on his face. He took a sip immediately, frowning a bit at the taste, but altogether seeming too tired to care.

Grantaire counted it as a win.

Ξ|Ξ

His shift was almost over when the first of the students started to leave. Joly and Bossuet were the first to go, car-pooling with Feuilly, and then Courfeyrac and Prouvaire said their goodbyes. Enjolras left with Combeferre and Eponine, who had been hanging around at the bar with Grantaire for most of the meeting, sharing drinks and a most amusing commentary.

“You can tell Courfeyrac hasn’t gotten laid in almost three weeks,” she whispered with a giggle over her drink, “He couldn’t stare at Jehan’s ass any more obviously.”

“I didn’t want to know that.”

“Man up,” Eponine replied, and then laughed again. “One time, Bahorel wanted to hold a ceremony to marry Combeferre to his textbooks.”

“Did you know that Joly and Bossuet share their apartment with Musichetta? I swear to God, the three of them together is the creepiest thing you will ever live to see.”

“It’s been almost four months since Bahorel’s been arrested the last time. The others are taking bets how much longer his good fortune will hold.”

And again and again, obviously aiming to tease Grantaire: “God, look at Enjolras. He couldn’t look more like some angry warrior out of a movie about Troy if he tried. They should’ve cast him instead of Brad Pitt, I keep telling Combeferre, it would have been perfect…”

Grantaire tried not to comment on that.

At last, Grantaire was left with Bahorel at the bar. He decided to clock off, and left it to his co-worker to lock up the place. Bahorel was, as he insisted, the ideal level of drunk.

“You want to stay here?” Grantaire asked before putting on his coat.

Bahorel raised his head, the hair of his mohawk sticking up more than usual. Grantaire still wasn’t sure if it was naturally dark or dyed – Bahorel didn’t seem the type for dyeing his hair, but his eyebrows were lighter and the black was so encompassingly dark that it just didn’t seem natural.

“You’re not gonna call it a night now, are you?”

“I’m not gonna get drunk with you, that’s for sure.” Grantaire crossed his arms. “I drove here.”

Bahorel’s eyes lit up. “You’ve got a car?”

“Fuck you, I’m not driving you home,” Grantaire replied instantly, “I’m not your goddamn drunk taxi service.”

Bahorel smirked and made an effort to get up. “How about some video games at my place?”

Grantaire was going to say no, but stopped himself before the word could leave his lips – quite frankly, what was his alternative? A night half-wasted, home alone? Or he could go and play some video games, if he got nothing else done.

He shrugged, half in defeat, half in excitement. “Why not.”

Bahorel flung an arm around his shoulder – damn this guy who could turn an affectionate gesture into something violent – and practically dragged him out of the café.

Ξ|Ξ

“Are you shitting me?”

Grantaire looked at Bahorel in utter disbelief. Said student was defiantly holding up an edition of Mario Kart that looked slightly battered but still playable, which was a lot considering the state of some other games Grantaire had seen lying around.

“What?” Bahorel grumbled, “I have a list of my top five favourite games to play with friends, and that is number one.”

Grantaire scoffed and seated himself on the couch in Bahorel’s dorm room. The entire floor was either littered with clothes, bandages –the kind you used for boxing, though some of them might have been for bruises, Grantaire couldn’t tell – or textbooks with exciting titles like ‘ _The Evolution of Human Rights and its Effect on Prosecution Today_ ’, ‘ _State Law Versus Federal Law In The USA as A Negative Example For The European Union_ ’, and , somewhere in the midst of those textbooks, a gem that was titled ‘ _How To Become A Lawyer In Five Easy Steps’_.

“Right, and that list consist of what else exactly?” Grantaire crossed his arms and leaned back on the couch, already getting ridiculously comfortable – in his opinion, you could tell a good gamer couch apart from regular couches, because they had a comfort to them that would allow you to sit and play for eight hours straight without getting little more than a sore neck.

“Halo,” Bahorel prompted, and practically threw the plastic case – empty, Grantaire noted, the game probably still in the console – at him.

“Apart from that?” Grantaire asked.

Bahorel turned to a drawer where hundreds of shiny and less shiny plastic cases peeked out at the faint light of energy saving lamp and pulled out a second game. “Halo Reach.”

“You are literally the most single-minded shithead I have ever seen,” Grantaire replied, “Come on, humour me.”

“If you don’t like Halo you don’t deserve to exist. You shouldn’t even be breathing the same air as me, you uncultured fuck.”

Bahorel turned back to the drawer. “Okay, I’ll pick a game that’s not Halo and you’ll shut up, agreed?”

 “If you insist,” Grantaire agreed with a dramatic sigh. Only seconds later, his head was hit by the slightly battered edition of Mario Kart, and Bahorel flopped down next to him on the couch with a grin that seemed to remind Grantaire he’d brought it on himself. Grantaire made a mental note not to challenge Bahorel if he could help it – or unless he wanted a good fight.

“How old are you, twelve?” he asked as Bahorel got up again, seemingly remembering that he still had to connect the console to the small TV sitting on a three-legged chair opposite of the sofa.

“If you don’t like this shit, you officially have no soul,” Bahorel stated with more seriousness than Grantaire could have ever mustered, “And I won’t stop liking it, so you might as well stop being a stupid fucker and play along.”

Grantaire smirked. “You have no idea what you have brought on yourself.”

Bahorel took forever deciding on a character and vehicle, Grantaire simply went for Peach all while grinning. The road was decided on too fast for Grantaire to get a proper look at Bahorel’s choice, and then they were off.

“You fucking cheater,” Grantaire grumbled as Bahorel got a headstart because he knew the course while Grantaire’s first manoeuvre was a dive straight into the water. Bahorel laughed as he raced ahead, tipping his head back – and spiralling off the road as well. Thank God for banana peels.

“Goodbye motherfucker!” Grantaire announced, almost _flying_ past him. Bahorel cursed and shoved him – physically shoved him, but Grantaire dodged his arm and another banana peel in the game gracefully and further increased the distance between them.

“Well if I’m a cheater, then you’re a fucking liar, R, because there is no way you haven’t played this before. And by played, I mean spent days practising the art of kicking everyone’s ass at this game.”

Bahorel was gaining on him again now, but Grantaire was still that bit faster.

“I never said I’d never played it,” Grantaire replied innocently, “Just that I’d rather play something more... _exciting_... for myself, seeing you can hardly call this a challenge.”

Pride goes before a fall, as they said, and in the next turn Grantaire jerked his wheel to fast, ending up spinning out of control for a second and letting lose a string of curses while Bahorel sailed past him.

“I’ll give you a fucking challenge,” Bahorel muttered, “This means war.”

They raced head-to-head, shoving each other on the couch more than in the actual game and cursing more than a bunch of sailors. It was good fun for a guy who was supposedly too drunk to drive and a guy who was too sober to think about the mess of his love life.

“Do you always lie to your friends when it comes to video games?” Bahorel asked when Grantaire won the race with a second’s advance. Grantaire threw his arms up in victory and screamed joyfully. “You cannot defeat the king!”

Bahorel shoved him off the couch. “Shut up, you moron, there are people trying to sleep next door and I’ll have to fucking deal with them if you don’t keep it the fuck down.”

Grantaire laughed and heaved himself back on the couch again. “I only lie when I am denied the right of choosing the game of the night.”

“Picky asshole.”

“Sore looser.”

They both cracked a smile.

Bahorel leaned back on the couch with a deep sigh. “I could really do with a beer right now.”

“I could go home about now,” Grantaire replied.

Bahorel glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow. Despite his undeniably muscular built he still managed to find clothes that were too big for him somehow, which ended with him looking like a giant pile of clothes with a head on top of the couch. His ‘ _Outlaws to the End_ ’ shirt must have been a size XXXXXXXXL or something to appear this ridiculously oversized.

“One match in Halo,” he said.

Grantaire considered it.

“One match,” he agreed, popping his knuckles with an evil grin.

One match became three, and Bahorel won all of them. 


	5. in which everyone is scared of failing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to look better and still get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the tags as well as the rating may be changed as the story goes on since this is, still, very much a work in progress and I change plotlines more often than my socks. 
> 
> Many thanks again to speightdaysaweek who had to endure a minor shock due to me tonight. She's the best beta I could imagine (but no I'm not sharing you can't have her).

Enjolras was fuming.

Well, actually that wasn’t quite right. He’d been fuming from midnight till five in the morning, when the effects of the coffee Combeferre had given him – it sure as hell hadn’t been a normal coffee, that much he knew now – had finally worn off and he’d drifted off into some sort of half-slumber where dark curls and mockingly curved mouths had played a more prominent role than he’d like to admit.  Now he was more of a sad heap of fuel-less anger mixed with frustration.

Combeferre, the lucky bastard, had still been asleep when Enjolras had given up on getting sleep at quarter past seven. He’d gotten dressed as quietly as possible in dark jeans and a washed out red sweater (he hadn’t done laundry in quite some time) and headed out with his student library card and enough money for coffee to get him through the day. His messenger bag was flung over his shoulder like a dead weight dragging him down, but at least the cold morning air took the edge off his tiredness.

The issue with Grantaire, however, remained.

He bought his first coffee and gulped it down too quickly, and it was burning his tongue. He tried very hard not to curse under his breath every time his thoughts wandered back to Grantaire, reliving the argument of the past night. Arguing really wasn’t new to him, so why did it suddenly bother him now?

All he knew was that Grantaire’s face crept up on him every time he closed his eyes, and also when he kept staring blankly at things for too long. Dark curls, a sharp tongue and tired eyes that held the hint of something Enjolras couldn’t put his finger on, something that was more to this sorry man that he let on. Dark curls, and pale skin, and fingers that were almost always smudged with charcoal or graphite.

And it wasn’t that Enjolras thought of Grantaire as physically attractive, at least not in the instant appreciation of Courfeyrac’s often uttered ‘ _damnit i’d bang that’_ – though he didn’t mean it like that, Courfeyrac was a very fine and respectful man, and he wasn’t quite as much of a skirt-chaser as he let on, but that wasn’t even the point. The point was that Enjolras couldn’t get the memory of _Grantaire_ out of his head, the impossible contradiction of his cordial nature and his bone-crushing sarcasm, the almost songlike ease of his tone juxtaposed with the harsh meaning beneath and, above all, the way he looked at Enjolras, more offering a challenge than presenting one.

Enjolras found his reflection staring at him from the window of a shop he passed, and huffed at the image: his hair looked like a nest of snakes, and his sweater was too short no matter how hard he pulled and tried to fix it. If that was the effect prolonged exposure to Grantaire was having on him, he would gladly give that up in favour of looking like a human being and actually passing his ridiculously work-intensive classes.

He resumed his path angrily.

The library was a short walk and a bus ride away from the student housing, and Enjolras had to physically restrain himself from glaring at everyone who stared at him on the bus. It was the lack of sleep that made him short-tempered, definitely, and not the memory of a barking laugh weighing on his mind.

He sighed, closed his eyes and leaned back on his seat, letting the quiet murmur of a saxophone wash over him through his headphones. The last two weeks had been rough, maybe a little too rough, he had to admit, with exams coming up and papers being due all while he was trying to keep up with European politics and the workings of his group of friends.

Exam season always made him question his chosen profession.

His phone vibrated just when he had to get off the bus, and he fished it out of his pocket as he stepped onto the sidewalk, squinting at the bright morning sun.

_Are you out to get breakfast?_

Combeferre had apparently woken up.

_I’m on my way to the library. My essay on liberalism is due on Tuesday and I need to check some sources for my footnotes._

He kept his phone in his right hand as he moved across campus. There were maybe three or four students crossing his path, and he switched off his music and enjoyed the relative quietness of the early day. There was only the distant hum of traffic in the background and the crunching of gravel under his feet.

_You hate Smith and could rip his theories apart in your sleep._

_I would, however, very much appreciate an invisible hand regulating the amount of breakfast on my table._

Enjolras stopped and laughed, halfway between the bus stop and the library.

_I’m not allowed to regulate that, sorry._

Combeferre’s reply came instantly.

_Luckily, you’re not the government. Bring orange juice._

Ξ|Ξ

Grantaire awoke on Bahorel’s couch the next morning, and found he had to revoke the statement on its general comfort.

His neck was stiff, and he’d lost feeling in his left leg, and moreover it felt like something awful had died in his mouth overnight. It was worse than waking up with a hangover, he decided. A hangover at least gave him a reason for feeling like shit – a reason that wasn’t a mildly shabby sofa in the apartment of a guy who kicked ass at Halo and whom he’d only known for little more than a week.

There was loud snoring coming from the bedroom, and Grantaire suspected this was Bahorel.

One thing was for sure, he was never ever going to decide that he was too lazy to drive home again.

He scratched his head and tried two doors until he found the bathroom. After splashing a bit of cold water on his face he felt more awake and slightly better, and also water was able to somewhat tame the wild mess of a snake nest his curls had managed to morph into overnight. It never helped for the circles under his eyes, but he was used to that.

He went back into the living room, found a coffee machine on a chair and decided to make coffee. The coffee filters and powder were placed next to the machine, and Grantaire relied on the comfort of the ritual to become fully awake again. The smell of coffee did wonders, too.

The steady hum of the machine woke up Bahorel, who emerged from his bedroom with all of his hair flat like a mat, which made his head seem about two inches shorter and gave his face back the roundness the usually spiky hair took from it.

“Coffee?” he mumbled and squinted.

Grantaire pointed to the coffee machine. “I hope you don’t mind, because I can’t qualify as a functioning human being before I’ve had one.”

Bahorel grinned, still sleepy, and slopped down on the couch. “I’ll take one, too.”

Grantaire laughed and sat down in front of the coffeemaker, waiting for it to finish brewing and then took the pot and looked over to Bahorel. “Where are your cups?”

Bahorel rolled down from the couch with a groan and produced two cups from behind a semi-professional painting of a video game character. Grantaire filled them and handed Bahorel his, then pointed at the painting curiously. “Who did that?”

Bahorel regarded the painting with a fond laugh. “Yeah, that. It’s Feuilly’s, he did it a while back when I gave him my _Red Dead Redemption_. Said he wanted to pay me with _something_.”

“He draws, too?” Grantaire huffed. “He never said.”

“Doesn’t like to boast,” Bahorel explained, “He feels like he doesn’t fucking _need_ to. You know him. Well, you probably don’t, but you’ve met him.”

They finished their coffees in silence, and then Grantaire said his goodbyes.

“You should come back around sometime,” Bahorel suggested, “Feuilly’s pretty good at Halo, too, and maybe we could get Bossuet... we haven’t had a good gamer night in ages.”

Grantaire’s smile was small, even though some part of him felt that Bahorel was genuine. “Sounds like fun,” he said, twirling his car keys between his fingers. He wasn’t bitter, per se, but he’d put others down often enough to know that it would probably never come to that.

He tended to avoid commitments because of that. Fewer opportunities to let down and be let down.

Ξ|Ξ

Combeferre was still wearing his pyjamas when Enjolras let himself back in, sitting at their small table with his glasses perched on his nose and a newspaper in his hands.

“The principles of free market in action!” Combeferre greeted him with a smile. There was a pot of coffee sitting on the table, and two plates for their breakfast. Enjolras dropped the bag of cinnamon rolls and bread rolls next to them and sat down.

“Did you really ask me to get you breakfast while making fun of Adam Smith?”

“I know you love it.” Combeferre smiled quietly and neatly folded his newspaper and put it aside to grab a cinnamon roll from the bag. “Besides, you’ve been working so much lately anyway; I’ve hardly ever seen you sleeping. What’s the matter?”

Enjolras’ brows furrowed. “There was something in that coffee you gave me yesterday.”

Combeferre frowned for a moment, clearly irritated at this accusation, and then shook his head. “I mean in general. Not just today.”

“I am fine, Combeferre,” Enjolras assured him, and reached for the pot of coffee to avoid his friend’s gaze.

“Yeah, right.” Combeferre put a hand on his arm. “That’s why you wrote a letter of complaint to amazon for shipping your textbooks separately and hurting _the delicate balance of our climate_ and also verbally lashed out at the new guy. Grantaire.”

A look of guilt crossed Enjolras’ features at the mention of Grantaire, or maybe that was just what Combeferre was hoping to see. “So, come on, what’s the matter?”

He kept a hand on Enjolras’ arm in what he hoped was a reassuring grip, but his stare was firm and unyielding. Since he’d become a member of Enjolras’ little group, he’d perfected the art of staring everyone and anyone down. The glasses helped.

Enjolras maintained eye-contact for about seven seconds, then sighed into his coffee and gazed down. “Just...”

He looked back up and smiled crookedly. He seemed even younger when he did that, more carefree, and Combeferre was pretty sure he was the only one who sometimes got to see this side of him. Finally, Enjolras sighed. “My grades probably won’t get me through the semester.”

Combeferre gaped. “But you...”

Enjolras laughed, like he knew exactly what Combeferre was thinking. He probably did, though.

Combeferre shook his head. “But it’s _politics_! It’s basically in your blood!”

And, a little quieter, leaning over the table, he added, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Enjolras’ shoulders relaxed, and Combeferre could – retrospectively –see how much weight that must have been on his shoulders. Enjolras had expectations high enough of himself, but triple those and you could maybe begin to understand what most others expected of him. And not in a sense of obligation and duty, but more in a sense of that he was simply expected to shine because he always did.

“It’s not the politics class,” Enjolras explained, “It’s the teaching part. You know how I clashed with the professor, and he’s been hinting about letting me fail his class if I don’t crawl up his ass, apparently.”

Combeferre smiled ruefully, breakfast half forgotten over the misery of his best friend. “He should really expect that from a politics major, shouldn’t he?”

He’d witnessed Enjolras’ outbursts firsthand, he’d been there, and he also knew that this wasn’t the only class where Enjolras had given the teacher a headache. It was, however, the only class where it appeared to have lasting consequences.

Enjolras scoffed. “Apparently a teaching degree in politics means agreeing with the clusterfuck of our system.”

“And that, as we all know, will never sit well with you.” Combeferre began to relax again. “What I don’t understand is why that makes you so angry at people who have nothing to do with that.”

Enjolras seemed to want to nail him in place with his stare. “You mean Grantaire.”

“I mean Grantaire,” Combeferre replied calmly.

On that note, Enjolras went for a change of subject – or so it seemed. “I am no saint, Combeferre.”

Combeferre quirked an eyebrow and waited for the explanation he was sure would follow. “I get mistaken a lot – for a great student; for a great man; for someone with extraordinary self-control. But you know me. I can be unfair, too, even though I try not to.”

He sighed, and Combeferre _knew_. But sometimes even he made the mistake of taking Enjolras for superhuman. It happened – it happened to the best of them – especially when Enjolras _tried_ so hard to meet all those expectations. There was a part of him that aspired to be the leader they all longed for, because that version of Enjolras was as much an example to him as it was to the others.

Combeferre helped himself to some coffee as well. “He tries, too, you know.”

“What, Grantaire?”

That was the second time today that Enjolras said the name as if he hadn’t been aware they had been talking about him, as if Grantaire hadn’t been lurking around the back of their conversation with every carefully chosen word. It began to seem too casual.

“You know he made that coffee for you?”

Enjolras sat up straight at those words. “He did?”

Combeferre nodded, and Enjolras seemed puzzled for a moment. He blinked, staring into the distance, and then resigned himself to scowling again. “Well, I’m telling you, there was something in that coffee. I couldn’t sleep the entire night.”

Combeferre frowned, trying to recall the situation. “Really?”

Enjolras waved his hand dismissively and reached for the breakfast rolls. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t care and he has already made it very clear that he doesn’t either.”

Combeferre watched his friend carefully as he got up. The frown on Enjolras’ face refused to soften, and his hands were clenched and his knuckles white as he returned with a jar of nutella. Something was bothering him, that was evident, but Combeferre couldn’t figure out _what_ or _why_.

“Are you gonna talk to the professor?” Combeferre asked after they had eaten in silence for a while. Their silence usually was just another form of communication, of assuring the other through leaving space rather than speaking out loud. But right now Combeferre needed words to get through to his friend.

Enjolras put down the coffee he’d been holding with a heavy thud and ran a hand over his face. He looked exhausted, his face ashen and his lids heavy. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I should, but then I think I should just quit altogether.”

Combeferre watched a drop of spilt coffee trickle down the side of Enjolras’ cup in fascination and tried very hard to keep the surprise and shock off his face. “Quit?”

Enjolras’ small laugh told him that he hadn’t quite succeeded in appearing unimpressed. “I don’t feel comfortable with what I do here. Teaching is great, and I would love to do it, but not under the current circumstances. I would have to work with a system I don’t agree with, and I would have to give up protesting as soon as I start teaching, or at least cut back significantly.”

Combeferre nodded, he’d thought about that, too, but it hadn’t bothered him as much as Enjolras, because he organised more than he actually protested. For Enjolras, however, it was two passions fighting each other.

“And what would you do instead?”

Enjolras made an angry noise at the back of his throat, and the well-known expression of frustration made Combeferre smile. “ _I don’t know_.”

He considered it for a few more seconds. “Switch to law, maybe. I know some non-government-organisations that could do with a lawyer. It’s not a bad thing to do, if you ask me.”

“You’d be every judge’s nightmare.”

Combeferre watched the smile return to Enjolras’ face with a light heart. “Shut up.”

Combeferre chuckled and reached for the coffee pot. “If you say so.”

“You are insufferable!”

“Says the guy who blasts Billie Holiday through the dorm at half past two on a finals night because it _helps him focus_.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, and the tension slowly melted from his body. “That was once. And only because I forgot my headphones weren’t plugged in.”

“We all make mistakes.”

Combeferre patted his arm and then got up, reaching for his cup of coffee to take it back to his bed. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll withdraw to study once more. Farewell, bane of judges!”

He took a little pride in the fact that Enjolras was still smiling when he’d finished doing the dishes.

Ξ|Ξ

Grantaire opened the door of his apartment to unfinished sketches he would never hand in anyway and the vague hope of another meeting of the ABC group that could maybe cure him from his boredom-that-wasn’t-boredom.

Grantaire shut the door to his apartment behind himself and breathed.

Coming home always meant relief mixed with dread, and then he remembered that this wasn’t even a permanent home and he sighed and just slumped down on the couch. Coming home meant being alone, meant silence and a stunning calm on the surface, but the knowledge that nothing was calm underneath.

He never knew quite how long he could keep it up.

Not that he had nothing to do to fight off the feeling of uselessness – he knew how to occupy himself quite well. He picked up a book – _Poe’s words were dangerous and Mill made him think of Enjolras because everything made him think of Enjolras_ – he cleaned the bathroom – _moving helped as long as there was music blasting in the background_ – prepared something to eat – _he couldn’t vouch for it being actually edible, but time passed_ – and then checked tumblr because he’d run out of things to do.

Feuilly was in his askbox.

_hey, i found a newspaper that’s looking for a cartoonist, do you want the ad? –feuilly_

Grantaire stared at the screen dumbfounded for a second because he hadn’t expected that.

He blinked, then read the message again very slowly, squinting and trying to read between the lines to find the catch – that little condescending touch, the sneering, the practical joke behind all of this. Why would Feuilly send him a job offer?

_Because you told him about what happened the last time and he cared._

People weren’t like that. The kind of people Grantaire was used to, anyway.

The kind of people Grantaire used to be with – the kind of people Grantaire _belonged to_ – made flimsy promises and smiled and drank, and at the end of the day they went home and kept to themselves because they knew the rest was just about as reliable as they were. They drank together to be able to endure each others’ company, but they didn’t stick around to make sure that all of them made it through the night.

They didn’t help, because helping meant caring, and caring meant getting hurt. That was inevitable.

It was a question of what they were willing to give up for safety.

And yet there was Feuilly – and yet there had been Courfeyrac, the only one who’d kept Grantaire from untimely ruin and death for quite some time – and Marius, and Bahorel, and God knows who else, and there were people who cared despite everything Grantaire had been forced to believe, and it was more than a bit overwhelming.

_sure, send it over_ , he replied and leaned back on the sofa, trying to figure out what to do about that. Because, the thing was, he was scared. He was unimaginably scared because people were caring about him, and did that mean they were expecting him to prove he was more than a sorry excuse for an artist who’d dropped out of university on a whim? He wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t sure he could go back there and find that man they thought they were seeing.

He wasn’t sure coming back to Paris had been a good idea.

But he _felt good_.

That was scarier than the thought of failures and disappointments and what else his brain could conjure. He felt good about the fact that he could spend his time playing Halo with a guy he’d only just met, he felt good about the fact that he’d met someone besides Courfeyrac who didn’t judge him for the fact that he’d been at some of the worst people could imagine, and he felt good about the fact that there were things to feel good about in general. Sometimes he also felt good about Enjolras, when he thought about smiles and sunlight and gold mixing with red.

Not so much when he thought about the fact that they had absolutely nothing in common. But that wasn’t the point.

He was scared about feeling good, too, scared because mostly it didn’t last and he wanted it to last, he wanted that kind of friendship he’d read about and heard about but never experienced. And he’d become really bad at cherishing things while they lasted over the years, had become bad at that because everything ended. Cynicism had made his career, but it had ended his happiness.

Ironically, the end of his happiness had left him with little of a career as well. There probably was a lesson behind all of that.

His train of thought was interrupted when Feuilly sent the link via fanmail, and he took a second to follow Feuilly’s blog – there was an awful lot of red and white, and Grantaire wondered if something had happened in Poland that the country deserved the amount of support and enthusiasm Feuilly was showing – and then headed over to check out the link.

Sure enough, that advertisement sounded like something he could do.

After a moment’s hesitation, he sent an email to the head of personnel.

Ξ|Ξ

_He has this theory that everything in his life comes crashing down when he lets his guard down for more than a second._

Ξ|Ξ

 “I am drunk, Courf.”

“And why is that?”

“I fucked up because I didn’t fuck up.”

Courfeyrac sighed at the voice of his friend on the other end of the line. “From the beginning, please. Otherwise I’ll just hang up because it’s two am and I have work tomorrow.”

Grantaire whined. “They’re printing my cartoon.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the beginning.”

“Well, Feuilly sent me this... this... how do you say... this ad where they were looking for a cartoonist to draw something for them...”

“For whom?” Courfeyrac interrupted.

“A newspaper, or some magazine, I don’t know, and I did, and they said it was great and that they would love to print more of my stuff.” Grantaire sighed, and then hiccupped quietly. “Do you see my problem? _They want my stuff_. And I got so overwhelmed that I got completely wasted.”

Courfeyrac rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He all but wanted to pull the covers back over his head but apparently, Grantaire really needed his help. “How drunk are you?”

“I’m not really sure,” Grantaire said, “There were a lot of half-empty bottles involved.”

“When’s the last time you were drunk before tonight?”

“A week ago?” Grantaire seemed to frown, and he hummed thoughtfully. He had a flair for dramatics the more drunk he got. “It’s not my fault, I swear, it was the whole mess with Enjolras and I got really frustrated and so I might have been drinking a bit more during the last week but--”

“You are...” Courfeyrac had to clear his throat and rearrange his words. “Wait, this really isn’t just some sort of stupid crush, is it? You’re actually, properly in love.”

“No! Yes. Maybe. It’s complicated, Courf, it was just a crush when I came back from London but he’s just... have you _looked_ at him, Courf?”

Courfeyrac groaned. “Grantaire, if you’re drinking more again...”

“I know, I know.” Grantaire sounded fairly sober for a guy who claimed to be dead drunk. “Believe me, I don’t feel great right now, but I just... what else am I supposed to do with my life?”

Courfeyrac was exasperated. He loved Grantaire, really, and he wouldn’t trade their friendship for anything in the world, but it was two am and he wanted to get some sleep for all it was worth. Moreover, the gut-wrenching fear he’d had to _constantly_ feel for Grantaire a year ago was starting to creep up on him again.

“Okay, listen up, we’re gonna talk about this tomorrow when you’re sober. Shit happens, you can get drunk, and we’ll figure out what we’ll do about Enjolras--”

A low whine from Grantaire’s end: “ _I don’t wanna talk about Enjolras_.”

“And you got a job! Fuck, Grantaire, they want your stuff, that’s a reason to be happy!”

Grantaire seemed pensive. “Okay.”

“Go to bed, Grantaire.”

“Goodnight, Courf. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“I wish I could record every time you drunkenly confessed your love to me.”

Courfeyrac hung up and went back to sleep. The crease he found on his forehead in the morning surely couldn’t have come from him worrying over Grantaire, right?

Ξ|Ξ

Grantaire slumped down on his bed with a bone-crushing feeling of stupidity wrapping around him.

Talking with Courfeyrac had calmed him down, of course, but it had also left him feeling like he had panicked for nothing.

Which meant he had been drinking for nothing.

Which meant he was a repulsive piece of shit and was just waiting for an excuse to get wasted.

That was usually how the song went.

_You’re not good for anything and even when you’re good for something, you manage to fuck up yourself instead._

He sighed, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes and upper face in an attempt to block out the world and fight off the inevitable headache a bit longer. He was angry at himself, but couldn’t do anything about it.

This train of thought usually led to more drinking.

There was still some amber liquid left in his bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and maybe if he added some coke he could convince himself it wouldn’t do much harm.

He didn’t want to drink, though.

That realisation was as unexpected as it was sudden: he didn’t want to finish that bottle and then pass out in a puddle of self-hate and his own vomit.

Instead he found himself thinking of something – more accurately, _someone_ – else.

Enjolras.

_Smiles and sunshine and conviction that can burn you, has burned you, and red the shade of blood you’d be willing to give for him_.

It wasn’t a good feeling, not by far, it was just that he hated himself for drinking and the memory of Enjolras made it even worse, but it did the job for the moment – instead of reaching for that bottle of Jack Daniel’s, he picked up his laptop. The world was cotton-candy-soft and the air seemed heavier than a pile of stones when he tried to breathe, and he lay back with his laptop on his stomach and tried to adjust to the brightness of the screen. His fingers moved over the keyboard clumsily.

Enjolras’ blog was easily found.

So was his askbox.

Grantaire almost closed the tab again when he realised what he was doing, but then he remembered he was too drunk to care, and just switched to anon. He was feeling something akin to dread and quite far from excitement, and watched his fingers move with a detached, morbid fascination. Some part of him knew that this was a bad idea.

Enjolras’ askbox was titled ‘speak with the voice of the revolution’, which was really very cliché and also somewhat unnecessary, and it prompted Grantaire to snort and think _no_.

There was something else he had to get of his chest.

Words were evading him.

It felt like this: picture a railroad track. Now picture racing down those tracks at an unimaginable speed, too fast to take in the surroundings. There’s a crossroad approaching, and another one after that, and after that, and each turn is taken based on too little knowledge and instinct and it only leaves you thinking of the turns you could have taken instead of focussing on the road ahead.

Grantaire had a million words in his mind, but instead of spelling out the erratic beating of his heart, the rushing of blood in his ears, instead of putting into words of poetry the symphony of his feelings, he chose to write:

_I’d like to stabilise your economy xx_

And then, as a second message and a kind of postscript (and, of course, anon):

_if you know what i mean ;)_

He was pretty sure Enjolras wouldn’t know what he meant – he didn’t even know it himself. The headache was getting progressively worse the more he slid from drunk back to slightly intoxicated and miserable, and all the _thinking_ didn’t help, especially when he’d only wanted to get something _right_ for once.

He felt like vomiting, but not because of the alcohol.

There was no way, he decided, he’d just let those two messages stand there like that.

He went back to Enjolras’ askbox.

It occurred to him that maybe he hadn’t been made for seriousness as he struggled to pull the right words from the swamp of drunkenness in his head once more. The mocking tone, a few borderline hurtful jabs here and there, it came to him easily. It didn’t require effort. It only required patience, and for the other to show as much as a crack in armour.

This, however, required effort as well as a certain deftness and calculation.

He was not sure if he was capable of those.

_it’s not my fault ur really attractive_

That was the last message, he swore to himself before checking that he really was on anon once more.

Since he couldn’t come to a conclusion on how to deal with Enjolras, he concluded instead that the third glass of wine after the beer had been a bad idea – the pounding in his head was almost impossible to ignore now, and his actions began to seem less than clever to him as he began the painful crawl back to sobriety.

Time to go to sleep, then.

He put the laptop aside and somehow managed to drape the comforter over his legs. He still seemed to be in his jeans, but he couldn’t care less at the moment – what did it matter, after all, when he was going to feel like shit in the morning anyway?

He slept, and dreamt of Greek warriors and long-lost battles.

 

 


	6. in which the world is too much to deal with

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire wakes up with a hangover and Enjolras will have none of your flirting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about keeping you waiting, but I had a busy week. Chapters might be a little slower now due to me moving, but I'll do my best to update once a week.  
> As you can see, I changed the number of chapters to twelve. That's because I have a nice plan that involves no tears or crying. Why are you all looking at me like that?

Grantaire awoke to a nasty hangover, and Courfeyrac sitting in his bedroom.

He blinked when the rays of sunlight through his window became too insistent to ignore even with his eyes closed, and sat up with a start when he noticed the shadowy figure sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor. He rubbed his eyes and regarded the figure wide-eyed.

Courfeyrac did not seem amused enough for a person who had managed the impressive feat of entering an apartment to which the key was still lying safely on Grantaire’s nightstand. Grantaire’s heart sunk as Courfeyrac got up and handed him a glass of water and an aspirin.

He sat down next to him and sighed as Grantaire gulped down the water slowly. “There was a spare key taped to the bottom of the letterbox,” Courfeyrac explained before Grantaire could even ask, “I know my way around the best hideouts for those.”

Grantaire eyed him from the side. “Why are you here?”

“You know why I’m here,” Courfeyrac replied, “I’m here because you drunk-called me last night sounding more miserable than I have heard you in months, and now we’re going to fix that.”

“You said that the last time,” Grantaire mumbled and wanted nothing more than to crawl back under the covers and forget the world for a bit longer, but Courfeyrac was having none of that. He tapped against the glass of water in Grantaire’s hand.

“Drink up,” he ordered, and Grantaire emptied the glass quickly, but unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it.

“Shower,” was Courfeyrac’s next order.

“It’s Monday; don’t you have to be in class?” Grantaire mumbled while getting up and stretching lazily. He was uncomfortable, mostly because his jeans were sticking to his skin and his tongue felt like a furry bunny, so a shower didn’t seem that bad an idea.

“It’s Sunday, and I have three hours before I have to be at Enjolras’ place, so go on and take your time in the shower. And clean your teeth.”

Courfeyrac got up as well, frowning as Grantaire flinched at Enjolras’ name. He looked like he was considering a distant thought for a moment, but decided to dismiss it and instead went to the kitchen to make coffee. Grantaire grabbed a towel and headed for the bathroom, stripping with some difficulty, and then hopped into the shower.

The water was freezing, and Grantaire cursed loudly, but he grit his teeth and stuck his head under the faucet, letting the cold water run through his curls and ease away some of the headache. With his eyes closed, he could almost pretend he didn’t feel as shitty as he did – the water drowning out the noise of Courfeyrac in the kitchen helped.

He should have bought shower gel two days ago.

Taking deep breaths only did so much to silence the screaming part of his brain – screaming because Courfeyrac was out there as proof that he couldn’t. He had no magic tricks up his sleeve, he just couldn’t manage things, manage _life_ in general.

He sighed, and it came out as a wet spitting noise under the steady fall of the water.

There was really very little he could do to convince himself that he wasn’t an alcoholic.

Courfeyrac had avoided that word, had avoided it when he’d picked up Grantaire at the police station after The Studio Incident, had avoided it when Grantaire had been fired – _not fired you were never employed there_ – from the newspaper and had avoided it when Grantaire had spent the weeks before London shaking and sobbing at his apartment, but still it had hidden itself behind every gesture, every word and every soothing embrace. He wasn’t sure if saying out loud would have changed anything.

“I am an alcoholic,” he said to the cold tiles of the shower wall, “My name is Grantaire, I am twenty-six years old, and I am an alcoholic.”

There was a dull thud outside of the bathroom.

“Are you talking to me?” Courfeyrac called.

Grantaire felt like an idiot.

“No,” he called back and turned off the water to put what was left of the shower gel to use. The good thing about the cold water was that he could convince himself he was shaking because of the freezing temperature and not because his body craved a distraction from the singing of his nerves, the ever-present ache of _feeling_.

He wasn’t an alcoholic for having a beer or five when he was out with his friends, not by far – he was an idiot for those nights, and an alcoholic for the drink that followed the coming morning, the drink that washed down his lunch, the drink that made him care less about his latest sketch and the drink that put him to bed at night. Courfeyrac knew, and Courfeyrac was here – maybe to keep him from drinking for as long as he was here, to get him out of the worst part of his desperation, and he was honestly _good_ at that, but it wasn’t enough.

And Grantaire hated himself for the fact that even with a supportive friend – supportive friends now, apparently – and a job and a place to live he couldn’t get over himself to _stop_ this.

He washed off the shower gel and then turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. As he towel-dried himself, his eyes fell on his phone that he’d apparently forgotten next to his shaving cream over the sink yesterday night. There was a text from Courfeyrac that he’d missed, and a call from a number he didn’t know.

He was intrigued. So he called back.

“Mabeuf sport centre, how may I help you?”

Grantaire actually, physically took the phone from his ear and frowned at it before he pressed it back to his ear to respond.

“This is Grantaire. You called?”

He knew Mabeuf, the old man at the other end of the line. He knew him, that was the problem – he should have no inclination to call Grantaire ever again.

“Oh, Grantaire! I was wondering when you’d call back!” The old man sounded delighted. “I get in this morning, and what’s that I hear? You’re back in Paris, have been for at least two weeks, and you don’t show your face here?”

The frown was getting progressively deeper.

“I...” Grantaire cleared his throat. “I wasn’t aware that you’d want to see me. With what... you know. The Incident and everything.”

Mabeuf chuckled, mildly amused. “Oh, Grantaire, Grantaire...” He sighed, and still didn’t seem the least bit angry. “I was hoping you’d be free this afternoon so you could come over. We’ve had a Capoeira trainer for two months now, and I know you’d love to try that...”

Grantaire was stunned, to say the least.

“Sure,” he said, “I’ll come over if you’ll have me.”

“Wonderful!” Mabeuf said and hung up, and Grantaire couldn’t find any inclination to believe that he didn’t mean it.

Ξ|Ξ

Courfeyrac was standing in front of the bathroom door when Grantaire re-emerged.

“Were you talking to someone?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow and pushed past his friend. “Were you listening to me showering?”

“Listening to you talking,” Courfeyrac corrected and followed Grantaire back into the bedroom. Grantaire managed to find a clean pair of boxers and jeans, and a t-shirt that only seemed paint-stained but otherwise okay.

He turned back to Courfeyrac. “There’s gonna be nudity. Your chance to get out.”

“You really know what to say to a guy, R,” Courfeyrac replied and batted his eyelashes. Grantaire threw a pillow at him and shut the door in his face.

“You did talk to someone, though,” his friend called, voice muffled by the cheap wood of the door.

Grantaire struggled with his jeans. “I got a phone call from Mabeuf,” he replied with a grunt, and almost missed the stunned silence and then breathless ‘oh’ from Courfeyrac. He did notice eventually, though, and it made him laugh.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he replied, and he couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Courfeyrac seemed uneasy – treading on eggshells again. “Okay, but... I mean, did he want to talk about that... the Incident?”

Grantaire snorted. “You mean the time I broke a guy’s arm in his studio after smashing said guy into a mirror? No.”

Courfeyrac’s silence was pointed one. “Then what did he want?”

“He invited me for Capoeira training this afternoon,” Grantaire answered and pulled his t-shirt over his head, opening the door again. Courfeyrac peered into the room carefully.

“What’s Capoeira?”

“A Brazilian dance-fight-kick-ass-while-looking-fabulous sort of thing,” Grantaire replied.

“Huh.” Courfeyrac, for once, didn’t know what to say. He shrugged. “There’s breakfast in the living room. If you feel like eating.”

Grantaire had to admit he wasn’t feeling particularly nauseous, and breakfast didn’t seem like such a bad idea. He followed Courfeyrac into the living room, where coffee and toast was waiting for them.

“Unfortunately you’re out of eggs and milk,” Courfeyrac said, and Grantaire could almost feel his cautious stare burning into his back. Courfeyrac was treading on eggshells, and he knew it.

Grantaire tried not to be upset about the fact that Courfeyrac knew he had to handle him with care, but it still burned as a low fire of humiliation-that-shouldn’t-be.

“So...” Courfeyrac sat down opposite of Grantaire on the floor in the living room, helping himself to a coffee after Grantaire had filled his own cup. “Are you going?”

Grantaire breathed into his cup, inhaling the bitter, warm smell of strongly-brewed coffee. “I suppose.”

“You’d like to, right?” Courfeyrac picked up his own cup. “I mean, you enjoyed this stuff. You were pretty... heartbroken after they told you that you couldn’t come back.”

“I was pretty drunk while and after they told me that, if that’s what you mean by heartbroken,” Grantaire replied, and it came out all snarling and angry and wrong. He wasn’t angry at Courfeyrac, he was angry at himself. He wished there was a way to communicate that.

“Apparently Mabeuf doesn’t hold grudges, though,” Courfeyrac said, smirking. “So, do you want me to pick up milk and eggs for you? I need to go shopping later anyway.”

Grantaire balled one hand into a fist under the table and tried to smile. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said quietly and avoided Courfeyrac’s eyes. He didn’t need help, but he really, really did.

Courfeyrac seemed only seconds away from taking his hand, the signs of his affections really went that far. “Good,” he said and then, surprisingly, leaned back, and the tension bled away like a dam had broken somewhere. It wasn’t casual, but it was more relaxed.

“I can’t pick you up for the meeting,” Courfeyrac explained apologetically, “Do you think you’ll be able to drive tonight?”

Grantaire swallowed and dug his nails into the flat of his palm. The sting didn’t help with the shaking, but it helped him focus. “I’ll be training beforehand. I think I can manage.”

And then, quieter. “Do you think they still want me?”

Courfeyrac’s smile was something wonderful – it was always honest, always reassuring, and it was _warm_. Grantaire had tried to paint that smile once, when they were doing portraits for fun, and he had ended up frustrated because there was no colour in the spectrum that could paint that warmth his best friend radiated.

“Grantaire... I have never met anybody who is so utterly oblivious to the fact that he is excellent company. I mean it.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

Courfeyrac sighed. “No, it’s not.”

“Enjolras couldn’t be any more obvious. He can’t stand me.”

Grantaire ran a hand through his hair, and seeing that crooked smile from half a year ago on his friend’s face again broke Courfeyrac’s heart a little bit.

“He can’t stand your beliefs, or the lack thereof. But I think he’s old enough to be able to distinguish that from the person you are.”

Grantaire looked away and scoffed quietly. “Thanks for being gentle on me. At least if I do get my heart broken, you’ll make sure it’ll happen torturously slow.”

Courfeyrac wanted to reach out again, but he knew from experience that Grantaire didn’t want to be held. “We’ve been here so many times before. You don’t want to believe that people actually appreciate you, and I can’t believe that you really hate yourself that much.”

He knew that there was nothing he could say. That was the problem with knowing someone for so long – sometimes it felt like nothing was moving at all, and nothing would move ever again. When he’d first met Grantaire, things had looked very different.

“I’ve got two and a half hours left,” he said instead, moving on from things he couldn’t change. “Do you want to watch something?”

Grantaire looked up again, and his eyes were tired, but the hint of a smile on his face was one of sincere gladness. Courfeyrac breathed easier again.

“I don’t have any DVDs here,” Grantaire said, “It’s okay, you can go to your meeting with Combeferre and I’ll see you later.”

And then he reached out – actually reached out to Courfeyrac to press his arm. “I’ll be okay.”

_I know you won’t_ , Courfeyrac though, because he remembered the desperate night of September last year, when Grantaire had spent the night at his apartment, drunk and shaking and half unconscious, and the things he had confessed that night without ever meaning to.

_I can’t stay alone, Courf, please don’t let me be alone, I’m useless when I’m alone, I’m useless everywhere but at least you don’t let me think that._

“I just so happen to carry Episode IV in my bag. In case of emergencies, turn to your local Courfeyrac.”

He managed a brilliant smile and a wink, and that got a laugh from Grantaire.

“I hate you so much.”

“No you don’t,” Courfeyrac chirped, “I have a voice recording from yesterday night to prove it.”

Ξ|Ξ

“What’s this I hear about flirty anons, Enjolras?”

Courfeyrac seemed unabashedly gleeful when he entered Combeferre’s and Enjolras’ dorm room on Sunday. He was wearing a black t-shirt with fading yellow letters that spelled out _May the Force be with You_ , and he went over to ruffle Enjolras hair before the stunned Combeferre at the door had a chance to stop him.

Enjolras tried to dodge his friend while glaring at him angrily and rolled over on his bed. He groaned as he felt the corner of a book he was squishing underneath himself hit him in the stomach. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow and looked over to Combeferre who sighed and took off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “He was just mildly confused until Joly came over to borrow some of my biology textbooks and saw the messages. Joly... _explained_ them to Enjolras.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “I see.”

“You don’t!” Enjolras called from the bed. “Why would somebody _do_ that?”

“It’s flirting, Enjolras, not the end of the world.”

Courfeyrac snickered and casually strolled over to the mini-fridge. The amount of fruits and vegetables in there physically hurt him, and he quickly slammed the door shut again.

“For you maybe,” Enjolras replied grumpily, then heaved himself off the bed. He was still dressed casually in sweatpants and an old t-shirt that seemed to say COPY TREE – that was, until Courfeyrac saw the other faded letters and figured it had probably said OCCUPY WALL STREET at some point. He stretched and yawned, and then frowned at Courfeyrac.

“Wait, we’re supposed to discuss something serious. That’s why you’re here.”

Courfeyrac gave up on the food-finding-front and stood up again, sighing quietly. “Yeah, unfortunately.”

He reached for his bag and rummaged around a bit, cursing silently and depositing various questionable items on the table in his search for whatever it was that he was missing. Combeferre frowned at a pink lipstick case that landed somewhere between Courfeyrac’s battered Nokia and his student press identification.

They all flinched when Courfeyrac slammed a slightly rumpled handwritten sheet of paper on the table with a triumphant expression on his face. “Fresh in. I’ve spent two hours on the phone for this yesterday, so you’d better be impressed.”

He started flinging the contents of his bag back inside. Enjolras and Combeferre moved closer and squinted while trying to decipher Courfeyrac’s handwriting.

“This translation is probably really awful, but it’s the best we could do on such a short notice. Note how we tried to make it sound nicer and it still sounds like they’re all asshats.”

“Is this from an actual magazine?” Enjolras asked with a frown, drawing the notes closer to himself to get a better look. “Because this is even worse than some of the stuff I’ve seen on the internet on the subject of the Fiscal Compact. I mean, wow.”

Combeferre took the notes from Enjolras when he was finished. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

Courfeyrac sat down with a proud grin. “So this is taken from an online magazine that wants to branch out in printing. Their stuff is problematic at best, and really fucking idiotic at its worst. They started out as a German paper, but they’re planning to translate in other major European countries.”

“I can see why that could be interesting for us,” Enjolras murmured. He had adopted this distance glance that spoke of deep concentration and imminent ideas that were just beginning to form.

“Please tell me you don’t wanna bring down the whole thing,” Combeferre sighed under his breath the same moment as Enjolras said, “We could bring down the whole thing.”

Courfeyrac, admirer of the situation’s comedy, burst out laughing spontaneously.

Enjolras pushed the notes back into the middle of the table. “Okay, we’re not even going to argue about how some of their views could be interpreted as racist, because that is so embarrassingly obvious that it physically hurts me, but I think the subtle sentiment this article alone conveys is dangerous enough.”

He looked at Courfeyrac. “What did your friend say, was the underlying message the same in the original?”

“Pretty much,” Courfeyrac explained, “She sent it to me saying it was right up our street.”

“Questioning the political structures of the European Union is one thing, but ridiculing the whole thing in a seemingly academic manner while using misinformation tries my patience,” Combeferre muttered, “And what worries me most is that this doesn’t even fit in with the usual style of German newspapers. You’ve read some, Enjolras, and it’s usually very neutral and objective, but this...”

“We’re going to set an example,” Enjolras decided, “We’re going to make them look so stupid that they won’t even know where to begin with trying to clean up the remnants of their reputation.”

Combeferre’s smile was small but devious while Courfeyrac’s grin could have powered a small developing country for a month. “I’m gonna call my friend and ask her to send us some more.”

“Leave the notes here,” Enjolras said, “I’ll bring them to the meeting tonight and we can discuss them with the rest of the group.”

“Great,” Courfeyrac said, “And then we’ll talk about your love life.”

Enjolras’ head hit the table with a dull thud. 


	7. in which there is a city tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras makes plans and Grantaire has fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you say I am late let me explain you a thing. (It's only half a week and I am really sorry)

Nobody could say that the ABC wasn’t minutely organised.

By the time the meeting rolled around, Courfeyrac had three more translations of three different articles, two of them recent and one a bit older, Combeferre had dug up some more information on the company and Enjolras had a plan.

Courfeyrac was handing out copies of the translated articles while Enjolras went through the note cards Combeferre had assembled.

Apparently, the magazine had gone online a little more than a year ago, and attracted attention from all sorts of politically frustrated people, most of which were leaning towards the right of the political spectrum, and that alone made Enjolras angry. After a particularly nasty shitstorm in their comment section – Combeferre had remarked in margins that he suspected _Anonymous_ -involvement with the way it had made their servers crash – they had closed that off and decided to print.

The translated articles all looked equally single-minded and more than problematic in their general tone and views. There was one about the exclusion of states who didn’t keep their budgets in check from the European Union – somehow they hadn’t gotten the memo that Germany and France had been among the first to break the Maastricht criteria of three percent – and Enjolras got annoyed just going through the notes that Courfeyrac had taken.

So he told his friends.

“It’s not what we usually do,” he admitted, regarding Feuilly who had his arms crossed in front of his chest, leaning back on his chair and listening attentively, “but maybe it’s what we should do more often. We’re talking about people who ignore any opinion that doesn’t correspond with their world view, and Courfeyrac has two accounted cases where they’ve deliberately published misinformation. This is _dangerous_.”

He caught Bahorel’s eye who had been listening with an adamant expression. “This is a whole new form of violence – a violence of ignorance and lies.”

Bahorel grinned. “If you throw a punch at them they will still shut up.”

“I don’t think that’s what we have in mind, though,” Feuilly replied with the slightest hint of a grin. That grin, however, was replaced by a frown as he noticed Combeferre’s quiet sigh. “Is it?”

Combeferre, who was sitting on a chair close to where Enjolras was standing, looked up at his friend. “I presume you want to explain your plan?”

Enjolras set out to answer, taking a deep breath, but then there was a dull thud and a loud groan from the door, and Bossuet, who had wanted to do god-knows-what, was apologising profusely and shaking his head at himself.

Other than that, there was Grantaire behind the door, a hand pressed to his head and his face contorted in pain.

“I was just opening the door, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, well, literally shove it in your face...” Bossuet turned back to the table with his friends. “Joly, can you come over here for a minute? I’m sorry, Enjolras,” he said as he met Enjolras’ eyes, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, I just... well, you know my luck.”

He shrugged and laughed easily, and made room for Joly, who dragged the cursing Grantaire inside and sat him down on a chair a little apart from the rest of them to check on him. He didn’t seem to be bleeding, though, not that Enjolras had been worried about that, not with Grantaire’s pigheadedness, no way, Enjolras definitely hadn’t been worried.

Combeferre cleared his throat.

Enjolras mentally cursed at himself and tried to focus on his argument. “Right...”

It took him a moment to get there again – that was, until he caught Feuilly’s eye and remembered.

“Our plan, yes...” He ran a hand through his hair and pointedly didn’t look over to where Grantaire was sitting. “Well, essentially we’re going to ruin them, in whichever way we’ll think best.”

Feuilly rolled his eyes, but his fingers twitched in excitement – maybe he secretly shared Bahorel and Courfeyrac’s liking for the borderline illegal, Enjolras was never quite sure and still waters, as they said, ran deep. Bahorel grinned and clapped his hands, and Enjolras noticed that he’d already made his copy of the article into a paperplane. After filling the sheet with side remarks. He would have to collect that one later.

Joly, from where he was treating Grantaire – and now Enjolras had no choice but to look – raised an eyebrow, and Bossuet seemed torn between horror and excitement. Well, the idea did seem fairly daring.

Combeferre was still staring at him, Enjolras could feel it.

“There’s only so many times you can call someone ignorant before it doesn’t even bother them anymore. They’ve had the exact opposite of their opinions thrown at them so often that it doesn’t even matter; those who read this kind of magazine are experts at shutting out everything they don’t want to hear. There’s only one way to make them listen now, and that’s by showing them what we will and what we won’t tolerate.”

He took a deep breath and reminded himself not to shout – that wouldn’t go quite as well as it usually did with the plans they had now.

“There are a number of ways we can go about this. We could report them to the authorities we see fit – but that will take ages and might not lead anywhere, because freedom of speech does and should weigh strongly, and you never know how well the media reacts to an alleged attack of the government on one of them, even if the attacked is a disgrace to the ideals of journalism.”

There was a nod from Bahorel, and Feuilly spoke up. “We might not even be able to get to the authorities responsible. If they’re German, there would be no way for us to keep them from publishing.”

“The most our government could do in this case,” Enjolras agreed, “Is to ban them from publishing here. Which they do plan, but it wouldn’t solve the problem.”

“Then there’s the possibility of a scandal. Dig up something, anything in the past of one of the main editors and see how well that goes over for them. Turn their own methods against them.”

“It’s dirty, but it could work,” Courfeyrac agreed, “But even then, how could we guarantee that they wouldn’t just bring in a new editor?”

“We couldn’t,” Enjolras said, “And we couldn’t even rely on the scandal to be fail-safe. People can make heroes out of the weirdest people.”

There was a hiss from where Grantaire was sitting, and then a satisfied Joly stepped back. “There, all done.”

He helped Grantaire up – which was, as Grantaire took his time to point out, completely unnecessary – and offered him a chair next to Courfeyrac’s. Grantaire sat down, dropping a black sports bag next to his chair, and leaned back with his eyes closed. He looked tired, Enjolras thought, not just from apparent exhaustion – if that was a sports bag, he must have been training, which was probably why his cheeks were still red and he had a water and not a beer in front of him – but there was a pale, greyish tone to his skin under the redness, and an almost unnoticeable trembling to his hands.

Was that exhaustion or something else?

“What’s the third option, Enjolras?”

Enjolras was violently reminded of the fact that he was currently conducting a meeting of political enthusiasts who were possibly planning to bring down a newspaper full of idiots by the voice of Courfeyrac, who then followed his line of sight with a raised eyebrow.

Enjolras cleared his throat. “The money source,” he explained calmly, “There must be investors who put money into that thing so they have enough seed capital. If we can make those people distrust the editors, their credibility, distrust the concept of this newspaper in general, then we should be good.”

Courfeyrac nodded slowly. “That sounds plausible.”

“It is plausible,” Enjolras replied. There were only four or five investors in total, and they all had a rather large source of money that depended on the success of that newspaper, so they would be hard to convince – but also very nervous once the rumour arose that the magazine might blow.

There was a slight cough from Grantaire.

“That’s a really very lovely plan you’ve got there,” he said. Just that, nothing more, and Enjolras cocked his head because he couldn’t tell if Grantaire was being serious – first Grantaire was sarcastic in all he said, and then he suddenly sounded serious and Enjolras didn’t trust him.

“Thank you,” he replied, trying not to let his irritation show.

“Is this a thing already?” Grantaire asked, and he didn’t even sound like he was trying to be innocent or lulling Enjolras into a false sense of security. It was just a question. “I mean, do they already have the press and the employees and the editors and whatnot ready for their big printing day?”

Combeferre took that question. “They do, and their first issue will be published next month,” he explained with a look to the notes on his lap.

Grantaire nodded, throwing in a quiet ‘ _mh’_ and tapping a finger to his chin as if in deep though. It became more and more apparent that he was pulling a show, and Enjolras didn’t want to put up with that – but he couldn’t very well tell Grantaire to shut up if he wasn’t saying anything.

Enjolras had just turned back towards the group as a whole when Grantaire spoke up again.

“Of course, your fancy plan would mean that over a hundred people lose their job just because you don’t agree with some guy’s opinion. Call me an idealist, but I strongly believe that is not a good thing.”

Somehow, Grantaire’s _call me an idealist_ seemed particularly funny to Courfeyrac, who was trying very hard not to laugh out loud on Grantaire’s left.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not particularly concerned about what happens to them. If they decide to publish misinformation, maybe they’ve chosen the wrong job to work.”

“Yeah, politician would have been better,” Grantaire laughed, “But that’s not what I mean. Sure, I agree, take out your frustration on those assholes all the way you want, but I’m pretty sure that the guy at the press doesn’t give a shit about what they’re printing. He just needs the money to get by.”

Grantaire glanced over at Feuilly who met his eyes and scoffed fondly, then shook his head. Enjolras crossed his arms in front of his chest. “So you would rather let them nourish a dangerous sentiment of elitism and xenophobia?”

“Well, I think this entire thing is a bit big for you,” Grantaire replied, and the worst thing was that now he didn’t even sound like he was trying to get a rise out of Enjolras. The shrug seemed casual, honest, _maddening_.

“Nothing’s _a bit big_ unless you let it be,” Enjolras hissed angrily, “Those people can find other jobs thanks to an economy that benefits from the country’s open market and the fact that they’re living in _one of Europe’s richest countries_.”

“Well, Grantaire has a point,” Combeferre remarked quietly, “There’s an ethical side to this we haven’t discussed...”

Enjolras glared at Grantaire.

“What do you propose, Combeferre?” he hissed out between his teeth without taking his eyes off Grantaire. Combeferre seemed to be unable to decide whether he should be amused or frightened.

“We could mix two of your ideas. Get one of the managers kicked out, find an investor who shares our point of view and let him replace the manager with one who can bring a little diversity into the company.”

“Except that would take time and seems hardly manageable with their first issue coming out next month,” Enjolras replied instantly. He was still looking at Grantaire, his hands balled into fists, and Grantaire was aware of that but he tried to ignore it, tried to ignore the persistent stare and angry remarks.

“Well maybe...”

“If you don’t want to do this, then say it,” Enjolras called, “It’s fine, really, maybe this is a bit big for us, but for God’s sake, don’t try to patronise me or calm me down. I value your opinion, that’s why I’m not sitting at home alone shouting at my computer!”

“You do that, too,” Combeferre muttered quietly, and Enjolras, against his will, found himself laughing. It took a weight off his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and tried to remember that he was tired and on edge and not always right. “Can we do this again?” He took a deep breath and looked around. “Who’s in favour of doing something about the magazine?”

He was met with nothing but raised hands. “Okay. Good.”

Sitting down he leaned over to get a look at Combeferre’s notes. “We have eighty-six employees, twelve of them in upper management and editing. The rest is concerned with layout, printing, maintenance and the like. We’re assuming that they all deserve a free pass.”

There was affirmative murmuring and nodding.

“What was your first suggestion, Combeferre?” Enjolras asked.

“Find and investor and a manager who are on our side,” Combeferre replied.

Enjolras chewed his bottom lip contemplatively. “That’s almost impracticable, I maintain that, but what we could do is find a local newspaper that is big enough to branch out and suggest that they buy the company. With enough money I’m sure there wouldn’t need to be much convincing to be done.”

“That’s not bad,” Joly agreed, “Everybody would keep their jobs and there would be a higher authority that maintained the standard of an actual newspaper.”

“I’m in favour of _that_ , Enjolras!” Courfeyrac clapped him on the shoulder. “Drinks, anyone?”

It wasn’t until they had all settled back in their chairs and were chatting amongst themselves that Enjolras noticed that Grantaire’s chair was empty.

The next gulp of water had a stale and bitter taste to it.

Ξ|Ξ

The thing about drinking, Grantaire thought as the door of the Musain fell shut behind him, was that it could never be employed as a casual habit like smoking.

He wasn’t so far gone that he would carry a flask around – wasn’t anymore, he reminded himself – and it had been really, really long since he’d craved a drink like that.

He saw the vicious circle he was in.

It was like this – he’d been good this afternoon, which made him hate himself for drinking the night before, and that resentment spiralled out of control when his body wasn’t imminently occupied anymore. Namely when he was sitting, with a painfully throbbing head – hangover plus exhaustion plus door – face to face with the source of his frustrations and occasional ray of sunshine in his life.

He exhaled shakily.

There was an urge, and no matter how strong Grantaire told himself he was, however strong he would stay for however long, the urge would ultimately return. And because his salvation was always a temporary one, because he’d already seen that nothing could save him from himself forever, he concluded he didn’t belong with these shining bright people. Their hope – Enjolras’ hope – was so bright that it hurt, because it reminded him of what he’d given up, of what he’d lost to the black hours of desperation in his life.

 

“I like the way you think.”

Grantaire flinched as he heard an unexpected voice next to his ear, and turned to find Eponine staring at him with a raised eyebrow and her hands in her pockets.

“Not the arguments, I mean.” She shrugged. “They were pretty decent, but I mean, I was impressed by your dedication to be noticed.”

“I didn’t even see you in there.” Grantaire frowned at her. There was a constant pounding in his head that made it hard to think, and Eponine talking in riddles didn’t help. “What do you mean about liking the way I think?”

“I’d say Enjolras was impressed, too,” she continued, seemingly not minding his feeble protest as she strutted onwards and down the stairs of the Musain next to him, “Annoyed, yes, but impressed. And he doesn’t even know that the really impressive feat of your argument was that you did all that while wanting nothing more than to crawl into his lap and kiss him senseless.”

Grantaire didn’t blush, but he cursed loudly. “Fuck, what makes you think that?”

Eponine rolled her eyes. “One, you can’t fool me because I’m an expert; two, you’re _really fucking obvious_.”

Grantaire sighed. “Okay, so what do you want?”

Within the fraction of a second, Eponine had wrangled herself before him and forced him to stop just before the bottom of the stairs. “I’m not offering advice, but I’m pretty sick of my life right now, and I guess that you’re too. Wanna have fun for a few hours?”

“I’m gay,” Grantaire stated flatly, because he still couldn’t make sense out of Eponine.

She rolled her eyes. “So I gathered, somewhere in between the longing glances at goldilocks and the blatant disregard for the fact that we just passed two women who looked ready to make out with you.”

Grantaire frowned again and turned to look over his shoulder when Eponine grabbed his shirt and hauled him down the last two steps.”I made that one up, but you believed me, so it counts.”

She let go again and smiled. “I meant something else. I do city tours for tourists. See _Paris like you’ve never seen it before_ , all that crap, but I really do love the city. Show me your favourite spot and I’ll show you mine?”

 Grantaire still looked confused and slightly out of place. It had all been too much – Mabeuf, the drinking, Enjolras, and now Eponine, who was going at an unimaginable speed that Grantaire just didn’t have the energy to match.

Eponine laughed easily, and Grantaire had a feeling she’d figured it out. “I did that with all of the ABC. I like to see how other people see Paris.”

The artist in Grantaire – not the cartoonist but the artist, there was a difference – was intrigued. “What did they show you?”

“Come with me and I’ll tell you,” she replied, and grinned widely when Grantaire shrugged and said, “Okay.”

Grantaire followed her out of the Musain. The streets were lively now – tourists strolling from restaurant to restaurant, people of Grantaire’s age or younger meeting their friends on the street or entering a club, musicians getting ready for a concert in one of the countless Jazz clubs. It was loud, and a tiny bit pretentious, and it reminded Grantaire of why he liked Paris so much.

Eponine smirked at him. “You first. Where do you want to go?”

Grantaire hummed thoughtfully. He’d never really had a favourite spot, none that he could think of immediately anyway. Other people did, he supposed, some special tree in a park or a certain bench at the bank of the Seine or maybe a certain painting in the Louvre.

Paris offered so much to pick from if you wanted to sound educated and slightly artistic and original – pretentious, to be frank. Grantaire had made fun of that, too.

“I think I know where I want to go,” he said, and took a few tentative steps forward before setting a more secure pace. Eponine followed next to him.

“Do you want to tell me or...?”

“Surprise.” Grantaire smiled teasingly and looked for the nearest metro station. If this was going to be a proper city tour, they weren’t going to take the car. There was always an entrance to Châtelet Les Halles close, and they hurried down into the white-tiled, neon-lighted darkness of the Parisian metro.

It was slightly warmer down here then out in the cold night air of late April. They caught a train going in the direction of Porte de Clignancourt, and found a car that was mostly empty. Eponine sat down opposite of Grantaire.

After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to initiate the conversation. “So I thought you were looking after kids and giving language classes or something. Why are you suddenly a city guide?”

Eponine frowned. “Who told you that?”

“Marius did,” Grantaire replied, and managed not to wince when he saw her face light up for a second. Eponine might have thought that their similarities would make them partners in crime, but Grantaire was more hurt by seeing his misery on someone else’s face than anything else. He knew how one could tend to find hope in the most stupid gestures.

She nodded, after a second, seemingly unfazed. “I do, but that’s voluntary. I started it for Gavroche, because that way he got free cl—” She hesitated. “But I needed a job that actually paid and so I took that one. If nothing else, I know Paris.”

“Were you born here?” Grantaire asked.

“Bred, born and raised.” Eponine shrugged. “Dad never really looked after the three of us, so we just did what we felt like doing – which, in most cases, was strolling around the city. Mom threw a fit sometimes, but she was too busy trying to look after the bar to do anything about it.”

“Wait, there are three of you?” Grantaire frowned. “You, Gavroche, and...?”

“My sister Azelma. We made sure she got a scholarship to some private boarding school two years ago. So far, she’s the only one in the family who ever left Paris.”

Grantaire had a feeling that by _we_ she meant herself and her brother more likely than her parents.

“What about you?” Eponine asked. “Did you grow up here?”

“Nah,” Grantaire replied, “My dad moved around a lot. Sent me to a boarding school when I was younger, but I dropped out. Dad hated me for it, and so when I finished state school, I left for Paris. Tried university for a bit, but it didn’t work out.”

“What did you study?”

Grantaire scoffed, and ran a hand over his eyes. “I took myself for some artistic genius back then, so I went for art.”

Eponine laughed. “Did you really...?”

Grantaire groaned. “Don’t say it, I know. You can’t make any money with an art degree. Well, I learned not to take myself too seriously the hard way.”

Eponine nodded. “You do cartoons now, right?”

“Yep. Well, most of the time, anyway.” Grantaire got up when the soothing female voice announced their stop. Eponine seemed intrigued and followed him.

“Now I’m curious. Are you going to show me the Sacre-Coeur?”

“You have no faith in me, do you?” Grantaire elbowed her as they stepped out onto the platform. “Come on, I’m a little more original than that.”

“I feared for you a bit there,” she replied. Her coat billowed behind her as she skipped next to him.

They exited the station. It was colder and less crowded in this quarter, and the two of them hurried along the streets. Eponine watched him intently from the side.

“Okay, really, Grantaire, what are you going to show me here?”

“Wait for it...”

She sighed. “It’s going to be some crappy tourist spot and I’m gonna be disappointed.”

Grantaire smirked. His phone vibrated in his pocket, but he didn’t have to check to know it was Courfeyrac asking where he’d gone. He didn’t feel like explaining right now. He just felt like _going_.

The streets grew narrower, and there were more people around them again. Their path lead steadily uphill, passing cafés and small shops that sold souvenirs and chocolate and other little trinkets that tourists could bring home.

“Montmartre is really fucking pretentious,” Eponine mumbled.

“All of Paris is really fucking pretentious,” Grantaire replied.

They turned a corner, then, and Grantaire stopped at the entrance to a small square that was filled with what was left of the day’s street artists packing up their brushes and canvases and sketchbooks. There were two or three still sketching tourists, but most of them were calling it a day, yawning, sharing a beer or a story, or hurrying off to find the nearest bar that would serve them with a sigh and a knowing smile.

Eponine noticed that Grantaire received a nod or two as they were walking past the stalls.

“Really?” she asked, “I knew it was gonna be a tourist trap.”

Grantaire smiled at her crookedly. “Don’t insult the artists; insult the vanity of our society. Besides, I used to work here for a while.”

That explained the knowing looks he was getting. “And what makes this your favourite place?”

Grantaire shrugged, and tried to seem nonchalant, but he couldn’t hide the small smile that fought its way onto his face. That was pure excitement showing, and it was indeed a rare sight on Grantaire’s face.

“I just like art, okay? And you get that here. It doesn’t matter that most of them just do it for the money and the tourists and drink themselves half to death at night – shit, I’ve been there. But you get to see their art: good art, bad art, original art, general crap that doesn’t have an ounce of originality, funny art, surrealist art, and it’s all here because this fucking pretentious city has declared this the artists’ quarter, even when it’s become so fucking expensive that no artist has _lived_ here for at least twenty years.”

Eponine smiled. “When you painted here, what did you paint?”

Grantaire groaned, clearly embarrassed. “You don’t want to know that.”

“Was it portraits? I bet it was. You’re so cynical, but I bet you weren’t back then. You love people. You love seeing their personalities, and the way it shows on their faces and in their whole body. That’s why you love Enjolras so much.” Eponine did him the courtesy of letting her gaze wander over the small crowd of artists so he could hide his blush. “He’s got passion written all over his face.”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “I did landscape paintings,” he remarked, and when Eponine turned back, the blush was still there but fading. “People never liked the portraits I made. They weren’t realistic enough. Too emotional.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the artist packing up and leaving, and Grantaire greeted some of them with a smile and a handshake. There was no friendship there, no bonds formed on the street in the midst of not enough money and a shared passion for art and all that romantic crap. It was nothing more than recognition of a face and a certain sense of obligation that neither party wanted to follow through.

Either Grantaire had never wanted to belong here, or he had found somewhere else to belong.

“Come on,” he said at last, “Now show me your favourite spot.”

Eponine seemed to have expected that question. “Don’t you want to see Enjolras’ favourite spot first?” she suggested hopefully.

“The university,” Grantaire replied with utter surety.

Eponine shook her head with a grin. “Nope, you couldn’t be more wrong. Well, you could have been, if you had said Pigalle, but...”

Grantaire blushed again, then cleared his throat. “Musée d’Orsay. Something educating and important.”

“Not the museum. Your description kind of fits, though...” Eponine laughed and dodged Grantaire as he tried to grab and tickle her to get to the answer. “Come on, I’ll show you my favourite spot. If you’re nice, I’ll tell you Enjolras’ secrets after that so you can woo him.”

Grantaire followed her, mumbling about how far too many people were far too concerned with his love life.

Ξ|Ξ

Grantaire was confused when they stopped in front of Montparnasse tower.

“Okay, so what’s so special about this place?” he asked with a questioning look towards the concrete monstrosity of a skyscraper towering over them. “Surely not this thing.”

Eponine shrugged and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Actually, it is.”

Grantaire scratched his head. “You’re gonna have to explain that. Nobody likes this tower. I’m pretty sure the tower itself is ashamed. Do you think it gets self-conscious? _Everybody is always looking at me but I’m really not worth looking at God why did they put me here_?”

“I think you’re projecting,” Eponine replied. Grantaire seemed baffled for a second, but she ignored that like she ignored everything that didn’t immediately concern her interests. “It’s a really personal story. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

Grantaire pointed to a bench not too far from the tower, under the light of one of the streetlamps that gave this whole quarter an eerie and cold touch at night. “I told you about my life as an addict and street-artist. I’m not sure we can over-share any more clearly?”

Eponine laughed and tugged him towards the bank, sitting down cross-legged, facing Grantaire. Her coat fell around her like an oversized blanket. “So I sort of told you about my no-good father. Well, he also has a lot of no-good friends. One of them just so happens to be called Montparnasse. Dad wanted to set us up. Not in the forced-marriage type of sense, but somewhat close.” She swallowed pointedly and avoided Grantaire’s eyes. “I mean, I was seventeen when he first hinted at it. I had no means to support myself and my siblings and I wasn’t gonna leave them alone.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure whether she wanted him to reach out for her or express sympathy or anything, but even if he had know, he couldn’t have – he hated physical contact, and physical expressions of sympathy, or even sympathy in general. The best he could do, he knew that, was listen.

Eponine smiled weakly, and it came across as bleak and hinting at dangerous. “I was really fucking upset every time I passed this quarter, and especially the tower, because it reminded me every time of the fucking mess of my family. Not even Montparnasse, he’s an okay guy. Well, no, he’s not okay, he’s far from okay, he beats up tourists who are out too late and the like, but I’m not exactly a pixie girl either and I’m not _afraid_ of him. We get along.”

She took a deep breath and then exhaled shakily. “And then I got out, and I met Marius, and I found some friends who went out for drinks with me on weekends. I found a job, and life’s still a mess and there’s not enough money and sometimes I do shady things in shady alleys and ruin some tourist’s idea of a perfect Parisian holiday, but I didn’t do what my father wanted me to do because he can’t make me do anything. And this is my favourite spot in the city because I’m not afraid anymore.”

Eponine fell silent, and Grantaire with her. He was in awe, because he’d never realised how fucking _strong_ Eponine was. He wondered if there was a secret to it he had yet to discover.

“It’s a good spot,” he said finally, “Even if the tower’s still ugly as fuck.”

Eponine laughed, and suddenly became someone else again – she seemed smaller suddenly, less defiant and smiling wider, like she had learned to hide all that world-weariness behind a mask of sociability. Grantaire looped his arm through hers, and they trod onwards.

Ξ|Ξ

He dug his phone out of his pocket when the door of his apartment fell closed behind him.

His screen indicated one unread text – but not, as he had suspected, from Courfeyrac. The number, though with a local area code, was unknown. Grantaire entered his code curiously.

_I hope you didn’t get the wrong impression at the meeting today. I didn’t want to make you leave. –Enjolras_

Enjolras must have gotten his number from Courfeyrac.

Grantaire let himself fall back against the door behind him and exhaled shakily. He felt a vague anger, but mostly he was speechless, or maybe frozen in shock and a cruel kind of hope. Three am was too late for these sorts of texts.

_Don’t worry your pretty head. I can deal with someone disagreeing with me._

The _unlike you_ hung unspoken between the words like a spider’s web. He sent the text regardless, and then threw his phone onto his couch while moving to the kitchen cabinet. _Old habits die hard_ , as they said, or maybe he really needed the comfort. He hadn’t decided yet – and he refused to think that his decision would in any way be related to Enjolras’ reply to his text.

_You seemed offended. That was not my intention._

Grantaire smiled bitterly.

_Like I said, don’t worry. Just don’t forget that not all of us are invincible, Achilles._


	8. in which a speech is written after midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras tries to write a speech at midnight. Courfeyrac is an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tiptoes into the room*   
> I do indeed still live and I have another chapter. I'm sorry, but I moved and life is really stressful?

Combeferre would love this speech, Enjolras was sure.

He’d sat down when the small digital clock on his desk had bleakly indicated the time to be 1:29 am, and he’d pulled out his laptop and got a glass of water from the tap and started writing. Sleep after meetings was impossible, because his body would still thrum with the need to _do_ something, the ultimate itch, impossible to be ignored.

They were planning to attend a gathering of agriculture lobbyists next week – the worst sort of practice in Enjolras’ mind, lobbying, because it favoured those with money and left those who were either poor or a minority or both with no chance – and he had to prepare a speech for that. Improvisation wasn’t his style, though he was good at it. He preferred to go through his thoughts with Combeferre, because it felt good to have a quiet, calm reassurance for his own, red-blooded and boiling _passion_.

So it was half past one, and he was writing a speech on the blatant economical inequality that Europe’s agricultural subventions perpetuated. Or at least, that was how it had started.

He’d deviated, somewhere between giving examples for the failure of local businesses in developing countries and drawing parallels to countries in Europe who suffered from similar problems, and then he was suddenly arguing in favour of a Common Foreign and Security Policy where only minutes ago he’d taken apart what Europe was _doing_ with said Policy.

Combeferre always said that he deviated in his midnight writing sessions, but Combeferre was snoring happily in his bed a few feet away.

Squinting, he went back to find the argument where he’d gone wrong. Incidentally, the point he’d made about CFSP was rather good, he decided. Maybe not one fit for a speech, but one for discussion. In any case, he saved it to tumblr as a draft and went back to his writing.

Something felt off.

Something felt off, even though he’d carefully stashed his phone under his pillow where he couldn’t see whether the screen lit up or not. That he’d felt the urge to check alone was strange enough, but that it kept him from concentrating on what he did best, on what he _wanted_ to do, was even stranger.

Maybe that text to Grantaire had been a mistake.

He resumed typing again, hell-bent on finishing at least a rough draft of the speech. Only there was a little voice in his head when he continued.

_Agricultural subventions are the only thing keeping our farmers out of poverty. It those were cut, poverty and unemployment in the countryside would rise significantly. Great stance you’re taking there._

Enjolras huffed at the imagined voice of Grantaire – Grantaire, of all people, why couldn’t his sleep-deprived brain come up with a helpfully soothing Combeferre – and continued typing.

_While cutting the agricultural subventions would incidentally lead to a rise of unemployment in the countries that benefit from those subventions, it would also create opportunity for new jobs in those areas. Agriculture that can only compete internationally because of subventions costs the state more money than it does good, and it keeps those areas from developing a safe and independent source of income._

There. That would show Grantaire.

No sooner had the thought crossed Enjolras’ mind that he buried his face in his hands and groaned – quietly, though, he didn’t want to wake up Combeferre. This wasn’t about Grantaire, in no way, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about him and it was infuriating.

Though, apparently, strangely helpful.

_Are you going to ignore the implications on foreign policy a cut in the subventions would have? Because as soon as we’re no longer self-sustaining, we’ll have to apply a different policy. It’ll change our position, and the basis upon which we lead international negotiations._

Challenging his own arguments was nothing new to Enjolras; he did that all the time. Sometimes he had those small discussions with himself, which Combeferre claimed made him look more than slightly manic, but it worked and made him more secure when he had to go and talk in front of people, because he’d taken his time to anticipate the worst response his arguments could get.

He just wasn’t used to having the voice in his head be that of Grantaire.

He also wasn’t used to that making him want to try harder.

_Those who are afraid that the lack of an ability to sustain ourselves agriculturally will lead to an international dependency have clearly missed the last few years of international relations: No country is internationally independent, whether we want it or not. On the contrary, it will strengthen our international relations through giving other countries the chance to compete on the global market._

He sighed quietly. That’d show Grantaire.

A loud groan followed when he realised that he’d done it again. He wasn’t even arguing with Grantaire, but he somehow was, because he couldn’t _not_ think of him, and that was the best he could come up with. And no, now he wasn’t thinking of Courfeyrac teasing him about being unable to even have sexual _fantasies_.

But that wasn’t even the point.

He realised that he was getting nowhere, and slammed the laptop shut angrily. Some part of him wanted to go retrieve his phone, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, not as long as he had an ounce of self-control left. Instead, he tip-toed over to Combeferre’s room and pried open the door, kneeling down next to his bed.

He grabbed his friend’s shoulder and shook him lightly.

“Combeferre.”

Combeferre didn’t move, so Enjolras shook a little more insistently. “Combeferre?”

Combeferre rolled over, his hair messed up and his face unnaturally sleepy and soft without his glasses. The blanket had wrapped itself around Combeferre like some sort of exotic snake that attempted to strangle him. “Wassup?”

Enjolras, kneeling, drew up closer to his friend. “Help,” he whispered, “I think I’m in love with Grantaire.”

Combeferre made a noise somewhere between a laugh and an exclamation of surprise. Enjolras took that as a sign to continue pouring out his heart. “I can’t stop thinking about what he’d say about my speech.”

“Courfeyrac would make some very bad joke about kinks now,” Combeferre mumbled and managed to half-raise his head from the pillow. He still didn’t look convincingly awake though, especially because he couldn’t pry open his eyes more than halfway.

“But I’m in love with someone who hates me for the very things I do!”

“I’m not sure that’s...” Combeferre started to interject sleepily, but Enjolras cut him off. “You’ve _heard_ him. And I don’t have _time_ for this, but I _want_ to and it’s confusing.”

“Ask him out,” Combeferre grumbled and turned his back to Enjolras.

“That’s not a good idea,” Enjolras replied.

“It’s approximately three am and I couldn’t care less,” Combeferre groaned, kicking back one of his legs lazily in the hope of maybe hitting Enjolras. He didn’t even come close.

“He hates me,” Enjolras stated, “I don’t like him that much, either.”

“Enjolras...”

Enjolras got to his feet. “Okay, okay, I’ll get some sleep.”

Combeferre groaned, because that wasn’t what he had meant and he was too tired to get his point across. Enjolras was already half across the room, and Combeferre found the pillow far too soft and loving to raise his head another time to tell Enjolras that his conception of Grantaire was wrong. He was asleep again before Enjolras had finished cleaning his teeth.

Ξ|Ξ

Enjolras found the phone when he felt something edgy and uncomfortable under his pillow.

There was, indeed, a new text on it.

He rolled onto his back and unlocked his phone, finding that the message was the anticipated reply from Grantaire. Even though he knew Combeferre was fast asleep again, he still did a quick double check to make sure that he wasn’t watching him and then opened the message.

_Like I said, don’t worry. Just don’t forget that not all of us are invincible, Achilles._

Something twisted in his stomach.

The feeling of guilt from earlier this night was back, and this time it was stronger and less vague than before. He recalled the image of Grantaire, pale and tired, and realised he knew far too little about him to make assumptions, and that, in turn, made him feel even worse. The others were used to him shouting about revolution every two seconds, and they knew that he never meant to hurt – he only ever meant to hurt people that threatened his friends, he got violent in those cases – but Grantaire didn’t know him and he didn’t know Grantaire.

Achilles, though. Really?

Enjolras frowned at the phone, as if Grantaire would be able to see the scowl. Was that the impression he gave off? Invincible and strong and terrible and thoroughly unapproachable? He wasn’t like that, was he?

He could almost _hear_ Grantaire telling him not to worry with that bitter edge to his voice, and it didn’t even make sense because they hadn’t done much besides shouting at each other, but Enjolras found himself _wanting_ to, because there were things he didn’t know about Grantaire that he probably should know if he wanted to avoid feeling like a piece of shit after accidentally saying something wrong. How else was he supposed to know if Grantaire leaving the meeting today was his fault, or the fault of some unforeseen disaster in Grantaire’s life that he lead when Enjolras didn’t see him, a life that entailed more than just a sneering sense of apathy and the ability to strike down the best of Enjolras’ arguments with a practiced nonchalance that made him furious, because _couldn’t Grantaire at least humour him and pretend to play along for the sake of it_. His arguments were missing the point most of the time and still they managed to unsettle Enjolras.

Oh, he was really very far gone.

He stared at the screen of the phone one last time, mouthing _Achilles_ under his breath, and wondered if Grantaire was aware that even Achilles hadn’t been invincible.

Not if you knew where to hit.

Ξ|Ξ

“You’re moving,” Courfeyrac announced when he barged into Grantaire’s apartment at an ungodly hour the next morning. He had Feuilly and Bahorel trailing behind him, and that alone was too much to process for Grantaire’s sleepy mind.

“I’m what?” he mumbled while trying to hide under his comforter to save at least some of his dignity. He was calm, he reminded himself, calm and not about to throw something at Courfeyrac, or better yet, throw Courfeyrac out of the window.

Courfeyrac tore the comforter away from him, exposing Grantaire in all his naked-except-for-the-boxers glory to the cold air of the room and the amused glances of Bahorel and Feuilly.

“I’m taking away that key and your life with it, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire threatened, “if you do not leave me alone this very instant.”

“He’s playing hard-to-get,” Courfeyrac said with a fond smile, “That’s adorable.”

Grantaire sat up and rubbed his eyes. A glance at the clock on the nightstand told him it was eight in the morning, on a Monday morning, and didn’t they have classes to attend and places to work at?

Courfeyrac, as always, followed Grantaire’s thoughts – maybe even a bit faster than Grantaire was able to process them.

“Sudden outbreak of the cold at our university. Half the professors caught it over the weekend, and some of the janitors and secretaries. Nothing’s happening there for at least a week.”

“The medical students are having a field day,” Bahorel laughed, “Especially Joly. He was the one who said swine flu when he first heard about it. Bossuet’s taking him to the hospital.”

“Is he sick?” Grantaire asked, worried for the guy who had so helpfully patched him up when he’d hit his head at the door. He’d never met anyone who worked calmer under pressure, and he’d seen a lot of doctors treating injuries back when he’d been doing kickboxing.

“Going by previous evidence, probably not,” Courfeyrac said, “but then again, sometimes he is right and everybody’s glad that they checked. He really knows his medicine, and he’s only in his third semester.”

“He’s gonna be alright,” Feuilly interrupted, “Now, can we please get a move on?”

On second thought, Grantaire found the situation wasn’t even so bad – at least he had been wearing boxers when Courfeyrac woke him, and his apartment was relatively clean thanks to his best friend’s visit yesterday. He smiled back and swung his legs out of bed. “Okay, you got me. What’s the matter?”

“You’re moving,” Courfeyrac repeated, “I found you an apartment near the Musain. It could be a bit loud on Sundays and Thursdays, but apart from that, it’s really nice.”

“Hot water?” Grantaire asked hopefully.

“Tested it myself,” Courfeyrac replied, moving over to Grantaire’s suitcase – he still kept most of his stuff in that suitcase, it was practicable and probably had some underlying psychological implications that he refused to think about – to find some clothes. He threw a pair of jeans and a sweater at Grantaire. “Get dressed, we’re getting your stuff there and then we’ll watch a movie and eat pizza.”

Courfeyrac lead Feuilly and Bahorel out of Grantaire’s bedroom, and Grantaire came to the conclusion that their presence had only been required for Courfeyrac’s personal amusement, because they could’ve waited in the hallway just as well, only that Courfeyrac was cruel sometimes and he knew how to get Grantaire out of bed. Grantaire wondered if Courfeyrac had figured out that it was easier for him to put on a show when others were around, other people that he hadn’t included into his circle of close friends.

To be fair, that circle consisted of Courfeyrac.

He got dressed quickly and then walked out of the bedroom and into Feuilly shoving a cup of coffee into his hands. “Courfeyrac already packed the coffee maker.”

Grantaire groaned.

“You can unpack that one!” he called into the direction of the kitchen. “It’s not mine, Courf!”

There was a collective sigh of disappointment from Bahorel and Courfeyrac. Grantaire joined them in the kitchen, putting the coffee maker back on the counter. “Actually, you can leave the kitchen to me,” he said quickly, “Go do the bathroom or something.”

“I ain’t packing your beauty products,” Bahorel muttered, his arms crossed, while Grantaire managed to strategically position himself between his friends and the cabinets.

“Okay, new plan. I’m packing the boxes and you carry them to the car and don’t ask questions.”

“You want to pack all that furniture into boxes on your own?” Feuilly asked with a raised eyebrow, his own cup of coffee firmly in his hand.

“It’s not mine,” Grantaire explained, “The owner of the apartment rented it to me completely furnished. They’re returning in about one and a half months from some trip to New Zealand. At least I think it was New Zealand.”

“You’re gonna need some stuff,” Courfeyrac stated, “I mean, the other apartment has a bed and a fridge and a table in the kitchen, but there’s no sofa, no TV, no cupboard or closet or something. I forgot that you sold all your stuff before England.”

“It’s alright,” Grantaire assured him, “I’ll live without those for a while. Now hush, get out of here, I need peace and serenity to pack my stuff.”

He grabbed the foldable cardboard boxes from Bahorel and shooed them out of the kitchen. They were complaining in the living room, mainly Bahorel, but Courfeyrac would have had to be very dense not to know why Grantaire wanted them out of the kitchen. Still, he pretended – for Grantaire’s sake.

He began packing the toaster – that was his, he’d bought that one a few months ago in London, and it was running beautifully, though sometimes the bread got stuck and burnt – and some of his food supplies, mainly those who didn’t need to be cooled. There was bread and some crackers and then he really had no other excuse to delay emptying the upper cabinet any longer.

Luckily, most of his bottles had been emptied the other night when he’d been drinking in horror of the prospect of a new job, of an _actual_ job in his _actual_ field of expertise. He packed those extra, throwing them into a bag to put into the trash later, and then stacked away the leftover bottles – one bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a sixpack of beer and some exotic Polish vodka – in a box with the rest of his kitchen supplies.

He taped the box shut with duct tape and then opened the door. “Box one ready for takeoff.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Bahorel remarked with a grunt when he lifted up the box.

Grantaire smiled fondly and patted his shoulder. “What car are we taking, anyway?”

“Feuilly’s,” Courfeyrac replied, “He’s got this nice van that he takes to festivals and it might actually fall apart under him one day but--”

“One more word and you can walk,” Feuilly interrupted, taking a box from Grantaire to fold it into box-shape and then thrusting it back at him. “Pack up, we don’t have all day.”

The living room was done equally fast – there was nothing much that he owned anyway, apart from his laptop, his tablet and a few sketchbooks that were distributed carelessly around the room. Grantaire went to get his razor and toothbrush from the bathroom and then made sure none of the items would break by throwing his towels into the box as well. Courfeyrac helped him stuff the pillow case and bedsheet into another box, along with his clothes and shoes, and then they were done.

“That really wasn’t much,” Bahorel remarked when he closed the trunk and leaned against the van, despite Feuilly glaring at him warningly. He lit up a cigarette while Feuilly and Courfeyrac moved to the front to debate the best route to the apartment.

Grantaire followed them. “Who signed the contract for me anyway? Because you didn’t just pack up my entire stuff when the apartment isn’t even mine, did you?”

“I have it here,” Courfeyrac replied, “The landlord wanted to see you personally, but apparently I am charming and confident enough for the both of us, so she just let me go with it.”

He smiled brightly, and the opened the back door of the van. “If you please, Monsieur Grantaire. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

Grantaire elbowed him but climbed into the car anyway, ducking his head and slumping down on the seat that squeaked in protest. Feuilly threw a worried glance over his shoulder, and then turned the key in the ignition when Courfeyrac climbed in next to him.

“Move your ass, Bahorel! We haven’t got all day.”

Bahorel cursed, but he stubbed out his cigarette and joined Grantaire on the backseat. They drove off, and Grantaire realised too late that this was probably the last time he would be seeing this apartment.

Well, it wasn’t like he was gonna miss it, anyway.

Ξ|Ξ

The boxes ended up in the apartment within less than five minutes, because it had started to rain the moment Feuilly pulled up in front of the building and opened the driver’s door.

Grantaire didn’t even take the time to check out the street or any of the neighbouring houses, because it was positively pouring and they were wet to their bones by the time they were upstairs and waiting for Courfeyrac, who had to stop at the landlord’s apartment to hand in the contract. Grantaire was shivering, Feuilly was cursing, and Bahorel was wringing out his sweater on the mat in front of Grantaire’s new apartment.

Grantaire had half-heartedly tried to stop him, but... well, they were talking about Bahorel here. Nobody stopped Bahorel from doing anything.

“I fucking hate spring,” Bahorel muttered, “Too much rain, and everybody’s getting sick and fussing about allergies. Fucking disgusting.”

Courfeyrac came sprinting up the stairs. He was as wet as his friends, but considerably more happy and grinning more brightly, even though the tip of his nose looked suspiciously red. Maybe Bahorel had a point about getting sick.

“Let’s see then, shall we?”

He held out the key to Grantaire, who tried to grab it from him – he should have known better, he really should have, Courfeyrac had been his friend for three years and he _knew_ that guy loved to play stupid games – but Courfeyrac drew the key back and shook his head. “Ah, ah, patience, my friend.”

Grantaire stepped aside, rolling his eyes but letting Courfeyrac unlock the door. There was a rush of warm air and they all sighed, and then Courfeyrac pushed the door open all the way to reveal a narrow hallway and three dark, wooden doors.

“Shoes off,” Grantaire ordered, because he wouldn’t have the first day in his new apartment be one for cleaning just because his friends were dripping all over his floor. They obeyed, and Grantaire followed behind Courfeyrac into the apartment.

“Bedroom’s on your left,” Courfeyrac explained, opening the door in passing. Grantaire peeked inside curiously to find a narrow bed under a window with half-closed jalousies. The floor was a rough white carpet that gave off a warm and cosy air, even though it promised to be a bitch to clean. Grantaire especially liked the huge window. Huge windows meant good light for painting.

“I love the rug,” Courfeyrac said, “I mean, for all I care you could fall out of bed and still be warm and comfortable. Rugs are great.”

Courfeyrac dragged him back from the bedroom and into the room opposite, which happened to be the small kitchen of the apartment. It had a small window at the far end, and Grantaire assumed that it also had everything a kitchen required – he was no expert in that field, but it seemed alright.

“What a waste that we’re ordering pizza tonight,” Courfeyrac sighed, “Feuilly could’ve cooked us something, and we all would have gotten food poisoning. What a waste.”

The room at the far end of the hallway was the bathroom, which seemed, at least in Grantaire’s mind, a little bigger than the kitchen. It had a tub that could also pass as a shower, a huge sink and a washing machine behind the toilet, Grantaire noted happily. No more doing laundry at the Laundromat.

Courfeyrac said nothing to the bathroom, and Grantaire felt more than a little speechless.

“Dude,” he said, and suddenly noticed he was on the verge of tears. No, really, he felt like he was about to cry because this was perfect and affordable and Courfeyrac had found it for him and he already owed the guy his life and probably more and how was he ever going to pay that back?

“Dude,” he said again, and it didn’t come across as more eloquent the second time around. It was just that he was at loss of words, and embarrassingly emotional.

“I know it’s smaller than your other flat,” Courfeyrac said, “But it’s cheaper, and the light is better, and you don’t have it as far to the Musain, which is great considering that you work there now, and also the shower, have you seen the shower?”

Grantaire nodded slowly, trying not to seem too overwhelmed.

“I like the shower,” he croaked, and Courfeyrac flung an arm around his shoulder and smiled at him. “Bahorel, set up the Xbox.”

Grantaire frowned at Courfeyrac. “What Xbox?”

Courfeyrac let go again, smiling even brighter. “Well, you need a housewarming party, don’t you? What could be better than a gamer night? So I asked Bahorel to bring along his Xbox and Feuilly to bring along his flatscreen – I’m using the term flatscreen liberally here, it’s not really flat, but I have been assured that it is indeed a screen – and we can order pizza and play games until I am summoned to wherever Combeferre needs me tonight.”

He cleared his throat. “Stop thinking dirty things, I didn’t mean it like that.”

They all groaned, because naturally, the only one who had been thinking dirty things had been Courfeyrac.

“It’d be better for you to shut up,” Bahorel decided, and followed Feuilly downstairs to get the gaming supplies.

Courfeyrac raided his backpack for the flyer of that one pizza place he’d put there a few days ago. Grantaire took the chance to sit down on the edge of the tub and inconspicuously wipe away the tears in the corners of his eyes. He felt unsettled, but in a good way.

Also, it was a good opportunity to switch on the water to check the temperature. It turned out to be beautifully well-tempered and inviting for a shower. That was the final proof, he was definitely in heaven.

Courfeyrac pulled the flyer out of his backpack with a triumphant shout, and fumbled his mobile from his jeans pocket to dial the number. “Hello, yes, this is Courfeyrac, we’d like to order a giant party pizza.”

He hummed while listening to the person at the other end. “Classical, please.”

Turning to Grantaire with a smile, he gave them Grantaire’s new address and then hung up. “Thirty minutes, they said.”

He sat down next to Grantaire on the edge of the tub. “We’re not bothering you, I hope.”

It was his way of asking if Grantaire was okay. Grantaire could read between the lines, especially when it came to Courfeyrac. Actually, most of their serious conversations weren’t spoken at all, but consisted more of a weird mix of gestures, touches, and words that were laden too heavy with meaning.

“Not at all,” Grantaire replied, raising one of his hands to stare at it idly. It wasn’t shaking.

“Are you going back to training?” Courfeyrac asked. He regarded Grantaire from the corner of his eye, carefully, curiously.

Grantaire dropped his hand and nodded. “I’ll go again tomorrow. It was great.”

“No trouble?” Courfeyrac inquired with an edge of uncertainty, or maybe dread and anticipation.

“None at all.” Grantaire turned to face him fully and smiled crookedly. “I think the lesson here is that I’m not actually a bad person. More of a person who did shitty things. That’s it, right? That’s the thing I’m supposed to take from this?”

Courfeyrac had to turn to him to see that Grantaire was actually asking something here, a question that might still be drenched in sarcasm, but a question nonetheless. He was re-evaluating things, questioning things that had happened to him, that he had _made_ happen.

He was _changing_ – or at least trying to.

Courfeyrac was one word short of letting his mouth fall open in shock. “Grantaire, I...”

Grantaire laughed bleakly. “I really don’t get it. I fucked up. I’m supposed to pay for that, as the responsible adult I am. But what’s the second chance for? So I can fuck up again?”

He looked down embarrassed, like he hadn’t actually meant to say that. Courfeyrac prayed to God that Feuilly and Bahorel wouldn’t choose this exact moment to show up again, because this was a _gift_ , this was his chance, and he wasn’t going to waste it. Grantaire was being _honest_.

“So you can _not_ fuck up,” he replied quietly, and had to keep himself from reaching out to Grantaire once more, “You know, you’re capable of learning. And you’re definitely not the same person you were last year.”

Grantaire let out a shuddering breath. “Maybe not,” he said, and then he was quiet for a long time.

Courfeyrac thought he heard footsteps on the staircase.

“I think I want to try doing this right,” Grantaire said, but before Courfeyrac could reply, the door opened and Feuilly and Bahorel were back.

Ξ|Ξ

Courfeyrac’s phone rang just shortly after the pizza had arrived.

“I’m gonna have to get that,” he mumbled incoherently, his mouth full of pizza, and struggled to get up to answer the phone. He frowned at its screen, and then moved to the hallway, shutting the door behind himself. Bahorel, who had been fumbling with the screen and the console, took Courfeyrac’s place on the rug of the bedroom floor.

“Are you gonna be a little shit about the games again?” Bahorel asked.

Grantaire scoffed. “You’re just afraid you’ll be getting your ass kicked again.”

Feuilly was quietly going through the box of games Bahorel had brought along, occasionally taking one out and reading the description on the back. “I’ll have to borrow some of these.”

“Take what you want,” Bahorel replied, “as long as you leave LA Noir to me, I’m grand.”

“He loves cop games,” Feuilly explained, “And cop shows, and those stupid two-euro-murder-mystery-books. He does the best Horatio Cane impersonation I’ve ever seen.”

Grantaire grinned smugly. “Aw! Care to give a little demonstration?”

“You can all fuck off,” Bahorel remarked, “Now, are we going to play Halo or what?”

“You’ll have to count me out.” Courfeyrac swept back into the bedroom with his phone still in his hand. “Combeferre needs me, and apparently this can’t wait until tomorrow.”

He cast a regretful glance at the pizza. “I am so sorry,” he mumbled dramatically, clutching his heart, then became serious again. “Okay, no, really, I have to go.”

He grabbed his bag and his jacket and went for the door, calling a last “See you tomorrow!” over his shoulder.

Bahorel grabbed another slice of pizza and slumped back, leaning against the frame of the bed. “Well, that leaves three of us. Pity. Courfeyrac’s an easy target.”

Grantaire snickered. “He totally is. Easily distracted, you know?”

Feuilly snorted. “Well, you won’t have that luck with me. Now, are we going to play or not?”

Grantaire moved to insert the game and set up their match while Feuilly and Bahorel started bickering about past games. He took his seat again, picked up his controller, and smiled easily.

Ξ|Ξ

“I hate you,” Bahorel announced to Feuilly, when said student aimed another flawless shot at his character’s head.

“You are just jealous,” replied Feuilly nonchalantly, shrugging it off lightly and Grantaire had never seen him taking a compliment in any other way. Feuilly was peculiar, in a charming way.

Bahorel grumbled something incoherent, and Grantaire slapped him on his back friendly. “At least you look like you could kick his ass in real life.”

Bahorel glanced at Feuilly darkly. “Don’t underestimate him. I took him to the gym once and he kicked my ass in front of my trainer. I’m never doing that again.”

Grantaire couldn’t stifle the laugh, even though he tried to at least feign pity for his friend. “What sorts of stuff are you doing?”

“Oh, I forgot, you’re doing martial arts too,” Bahorel nodded absentmindedly, “Well, I’ve been boxing for almost over ten years now. They just made me a trainer at your sports centre.”

“ _My_ sports centre?” Grantaire frowned.

“Mabeuf knew you. At least he said he did.” Bahorel mustered Grantaire. “That was where you were training though, right?”

Grantaire was glad for the excuse of a game to glance at the screen. “Yeah, I did.”

It was quiet for a moment, not counting the shouting and gun noises from the screen, before Grantaire mustered up the courage to speak again. “Did he tell you about...?”

Bahorel, that Grantaire could tell by looking at him from the corner of his eye, frowned at him. “Did he tell me about what?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Nevermind. I suppose you told him about me being back in Paris, then?”

“I might have mentioned you,” Bahorel grinned, “I couldn’t help it, you looked like a pretty decent boxer and I wondered where you’d learnt it.”

Grantaire smiled bleakly. “Well, now you know.”

Bahorel seemed to sense is uneasiness – then again, it really wasn’t hard to tell what with him grinding his teeth subconsciously and gripping the controller just that bit tighter. Feuilly had noticed, too. And, contrarily to Bahorel, he also knew what Grantaire had told him a couple of weeks ago.

“Since neither of you are actually capable of properly playing this game, would you consider a different one to perhaps make it easier for you?”

Bahorel glanced first at Grantaire and then at Feuilly, and then back at Grantaire. He seemed to understand, even though he couldn’t have.

“Oh, fuck you,” he muttered in the direction of Feuilly, but obediently grabbed his bag to offer Feuilly the other games he had brought along. “Don’t pick Mario Kart,” he advised, “R is wicked at that.”

Feuilly glanced over at Grantaire. “You don’t seem the type.”

“I can kick your ass at any game,” Grantaire grumbled, “Unless it’s three am and I’m playing Halo against Bahorel.”

Bahorel roared with laughter. “He still hasn’t forgiven me.”

Ξ|Ξ

“I’m really glad we’re not doing the whole scandal thing with the newspaper.”

A second-rate zombie shooter was playing on the screen, disembodied moans, screams and gunfire floating through the room. Feuilly didn’t even seem to look at his part of the screen as he steered his character through hordes of walking dead that fell behind him, while Bahorel struggled considerably with keeping up on his end – even though Feuilly’s knife shouldn’t hold anything against the rifle Bahorel had chosen. Grantaire kept quiet, so quiet, in fact, that Feuilly didn’t notice him stealing every third or so of his kills.

Bahorel briefly glanced over at Feuilly, who had uttered the comment. “Me too. I mean, I’m all in for a few dirty tricks, but the whole thing was a bit overambitious.”

Grantaire tried to make himself even smaller.

It didn’t work.

“You are a rare gift, man.” Bahorel patted his back briefly before taking both hands back to the controller. “I mean, I’ve seen people challenge Enjolras before, and I’m not afraid to do so myself, but he’s just so fucking convincing that after a while you’d believe him anything. And it just doesn’t work with you.”

Grantaire grumbled and slouched down even farther. “’m a fucking gift, sure.”

He didn’t like to be reminded of the fact that he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut when it was good for him. It felt ugly to him, tearing down all the things that Enjolras had so carefully built up, even when he believed he was right in what he was saying. He didn’t feel better just because he thought he could see through the disillusionments of idealism and tear down all their pretty ideas, it only made him feel world-weary and old and bitter.

Feuilly chimed in again. “I mean it, though. I don’t like the idea that we would’ve gotten over a hundred people into unemployment.”

“Sympathy for the people at the press?” Grantaire raised an eyebrow and shot a quick glance at Feuilly.

To his surprise, Feuilly didn’t rise to the bait. “You know what, I let it slide the first time, because your comment was well-intended, but it’s a) unnecessary, b) condescending and c) a false assumption because I am not politically indifferent or blind as soon as I am in need of money and a job. You’re a nice enough guy, and I’m sure you didn’t mean it that way, but I’m just saying. Don’t fucking use me to make your point. If I want to be a point, I’ll make myself one.”

“Wow, dude, that sounded wrong in so many ways,” Bahorel remarked quietly.

Grantaire shot Feuilly a sheepish glance. “I’m sorry,” he said and meant it. If there was one thing he didn’t want to do, it was to reduce people he considered his friends to some abstract idea – he had a feeling this was something Enjolras would do.

Or maybe not. He valued his friends, apparently even more than his ideals.

Grantaire was frustrated with Enjolras, to say the least.

Feuilly waved his controller dismissively, still managing to take out a zombie in the process. “Nevermind. It’s just that I get it so often, the poor students in debt, the diligent workers, apparently I fit all kinds of stereotypes. Just leave me the fuck alone and I will leave you alone.”

“Unless you are the head of an oppressive system,” Bahorel muttered, “Then he will kick your ass.”

“Then I will kick your ass,” Feuilly concluded, “Now, does anybody else feel like you really can’t hold up to me in this game?”

“Again?” Bahorel grumbled unintelligibly, and Grantaire had to concede that indeed, he didn’t even come close to Feuilly’s hitcount. Admittedly, he’d done his part in trying to keep the number of Feuilly’s kills lower, but it still hadn’t impaired one bit on his score.

“You’re cheating.”

“You just suck,” Feuilly replied.

“You really are good, though,” Bahorel added, “God knows how you do it.”

Feuilly grinned. “Anybody in for a movie?”

“What have you got?” Grantaire asked, leaning over as Feuilly rummaged around in his backpack. It was a large, military-style backpack with a lot of space for leaving a lot of illegal things – those backpacks really came in handy for a lot of situations. Not just art supplies, Grantaire knew that.

“Inglorious Basterds?”

“Fucking hell!” Bahorel’s fist shot up in the air. “I’m in.”

“Sounds good,” Grantaire said with a shrug. He felt weightless, in a good way – there was nothing dragging him down, nothing holding him back from enjoying the moment, and he could simply let go and float through the mass of sensations of friendship and camaraderie and easy living. He had an apartment, and friends, and a fair prospect of keeping a job.

Life was wonderful, and then there was Enjolras.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to comment, or come visit me on tumblr (find me under buveurgrantaire).


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